Oonagh's Faith
by scousemuz1k
Summary: Tony and Tim are determined to obtain justice for an elderly woman, and learn something along the way
1. Chapter 1

**AN: This was originally intended as a short one off, a bit of bonding between Gibbs' terrible twins, but as I had another story in mind, it seemed as if it might make a good introduction. It's a bit shorter than I usually like a chapter to be, but at least I've made a start instead of just procrastinating.**

**Who's Oonagh? She'll be along in a while.**

Oonagh's Faith

by scousemuz1k

McGee wasn't going to complain about cold cases – not that there was anyone else there to complain to. He'd got up with the dawn, and come into work early, positively eager to bury himself in them. He was happy to be off rotation; to sit at his desk all day until he was forced to go home again, when he planned, like last night, to lie in a very hot bath for a very long time, trying to think about nothing.

He wondered about going down to the forensics lab; he knew that the moment he walked in there looking sore and puppy-like he'd receive a great shoulder massage, but the shoulders in question were so bruised and lacerated he couldn't let anyone near them, least of all the kindly, enthusiastic, always willing to help Abby. Maybe he should go and talk to her anyway... but no way was he going to tell he what he'd seen and thought yesterday, or how it wouldn't get out of his mind, and he wouldn't be able to fool her that he was there for small talk.

He feared there wasn't enough brain bleach in the whole USA to purge from his head the sight of those grey-encrusted hands, sticking out of the half-dried concrete in useless supplication. The victim had been alive when they'd thrown him in. He wished he couldn't still feel the sickening blow to the back of his skull that had rendered him unable to defend himself, but still aware that he was being endlessly, painfully dragged by his feet across sharp brick rubble, towards another footing trench – where he was clearly intended to end up like his informant, the owner of the hands.

His thick NCIS jacket had saved most of his back from abrasion, although as Ducky had remarked, every notch of his spine had its own bruise; at least, even in his semi-conscious state, after the first couple of whacks he'd managed to keep his head raised.

"_That was fortunate, Timothy; if you had become unconscious from repeated blows to the back of your head, you could easily have inhaled the concrete; and even if we could have cleared your airways in time for you to breathe again, the lime is corrosive and the silica abrasive..."_

"_I don't think I want to know, Ducky..."_ (He didn't. He was trying not to imagine how the guy had died – but his excellent imagination was insistent on giving him every detail.)

"_Of course not, dear boy, I'm so sorry – I'm just trying to reassure you that you did the right thing, even when not in control of yourself, or indeed your situation. Anthony said something similar... Dear me, you have quite a lump here, although the cut is fortunately not too big..."_

If Tony had said something complimentary about him, he supposed he ought to be interested in what, but he'd tuned the good old man out, not exactly deliberately; corroded or not, abraded or not, it wouldn't have mattered. If DiNozzo hadn't foreseen trouble and arrived in time, dead would still have been dead.

He rolled his shoulders slowly and carefully. He wondered if he wouldn't rather be painfully working a crime scene than taking the opportunity to rest physically. Sacrilege; he knew the Boss had fixed it so he _could_ rest. (How pleased he'd be to find him here before him was anybody's guess.) He and Tony had waited in the rain until assistance came in the shape of LEOs and the works foreman; when they'd got back from the building site, dirty and bedraggled, himself jittery and in pain, his partner dark and sardonic, having shot two men dead, Gibbs had gone straight to the Director...

"_Marchetti's team's handling it. Get yourselves cleaned up and warm. See Ducky. Get some food. Make your reports – short – go home. We're off rotation."_

He snapped out of his funk with an effort, and forced his attention back to the file in front of him, but focussing his eyes, let alone his mind, was an effort...

A hot sub landed miraculously on the desk in front of him. A hot sub... and... a Nutter Butter! He looked up in surprise, into quizzical green eyes.

"Tony! How did -"

"How did I know you were here? And needing McGeeding feeding? Well, I'd like to say it was because I'm brilliantly intuitive and perceptive... but the truth is, I saw your car was here, and when I went to the deli I asked Debs if you'd been in. She said not. And even if you ate at home, which I doubted, I figured you could manage a second breakfast."

"Well, yeah, I can... thanks Tony... er, I mean, no I didn't eat at home, so this is my first... I mean..." he frowned and rubbed his eyes. "How did you know I didn't eat at home?"

Tony unsubtly nudged the food closer to the younger agent's hand. "Had a feeling you'd still be too McRattled to think about it," he said, and waited with his head on one side. Both the stance and the slightly goading tone suggested that some sort of response might be a good idea, because Tony wasn't going to go away until he got one.

Lurking at the back of Tim's mind had been the ungracious little thought, that he didn't really want to think, that breakfast or not he didn't want Tony's, or anyone's company right now, (what the heck was_ he_ doing in so early anyway?) He just wanted to be left alone. Unreasonable, he admonished himself silently. If he'd wanted to be alone, what was he doing here?

"It was new, wasn't it," he said finally. "All the things we've faced – guns, knives, bombs, cars, viruses... terrorists and poisoned money – no problem. Yeah, I _am_ rattled – by a trench-full of concrete."

Tony dumped his pack behind his desk, then sauntered back over in a deceptively casual way that didn't deceive his colleague at all, hitched himself up on the corner of Tim's desk and waited to see if he had anything to add. As his friend struggled, he nudged again, verbally this time. "Did Ducky give you anything? For the pain?"

Again, it worked. "I've taken it. I'm not proud... and I'm fine if I don't make any sudden moves. That's not it, I've had worse."

_'Whoa,'_ Tony thought, _ 'that's __**my**__ line,' _but he didn't interrupt.

"It wasn't the feel of the stuff pulling at my legs... the suction... you know, the _sound... _well, it was a bit -" he shook himself. "The guy's hands... grey... covered in it... I was thinking that if he could lift his hands out of the stuff, why couldn't he lift his head? Then I thought of the weight of the stuff on his face, clogging up his nose and mouth, pushing him down... what a god-awful way to go. It got under my defences, you know? They threw him in alive... conscious... and the next thing I know is, they're going to do the same to me -"

"And they're both dead," Tony reminded him in a low, harsh voice.

"And I'm alive," Tim agreed just as quietly. "Tony -"

"If you're going to say thanks again, we've done all that. Next time I'm hanging over a stairwell -" he spread his hands and left the rest of it unsaid. After a short silence he added encouragingly, "Your sub's going cold."

"OK..." Tim obligingly took a bite, and there was a longer silence while he chewed, then he smiled. "This is good... thanks... where's yours?"

DiNozzo grinned. "Snarfed it on the walk back. Fought nobly not to eat yours as well."

"Ah." The younger agent stopped with the sub halfway to his mouth, and huffed a sigh. "Well, yeah, it was bad. I'll deal with it. We always do, don't we?" He sank his teeth into the bread.

Tony's expression was wry. "Yeah, we do. You will. We do seem to practise a lot. Just don't sit there all morning trying not to, OK?" McGee's nod was half-hearted, and the SFA frowned. He'd tried food, and reassurance, and getting him to open up... "Look," he said in the end, "You do know you did good, don't you?"

"How's that?" Tim asked indistinctly.

"_How's that?_ Well... I saw Moreton whack you with the chunk of timber before I even stopped my car... I saw them drag you over to the trench, I knew you were still alive cuz you were holding your head up off the ground. I saw them pitch you in there, and I ran like hell. They had guns, and I was thinking a bit crazy... why didn't they just shoot you – not that I actually _wanted_ them to, OK? – I thought they were sadistic bastards who'd rather kill you slowly, and up to then I'd not _seen_ the other guy. The one already in there... They started to turn their guns on me and I fired first, and then – d'you know, I was scared to look in that trench... but there you were, flopping around like a concussed Captain Crusty, but you still had the sense to keep your arms spread. D'you know how deep the concrete was?"

Tim looked green. "I don't know if I want to know... but I guess I need to... go on, tell me."

His friend made it flat and factual; he drew the line at trying to come over as a hero when McGee was trying to deal, but hey, best deal with it _all _at once.

"I talked to the foreman later on," he said calmly. "They'd poured four feet, and if you'd gone in on your back, or head first... hell, I didn't know you could have stood up in it – if you'd already gone under I wouldn't have known whether jumping in after you would just have made things worse. But there you were, McThiswayup – I nearly wet myself with relief, when all I had to do was grab your arms and start pulling. Like I said, you did good."

Tim frowned. "Looks like I'm not the only one who's rattled."

"I'm fine."

"You overuse that word."

Tony shrugged. "I'd hate for it to die out. You know you meet people sometimes who can't wait for you to finish your sentence and shut up so they can cap your story? I'm actually _not _trying to shove _my_ viewpoint in your face right now."

"_'Just don't sit there all morning trying not to,'" _Tim quoted. "I've told you mine... " He tried a nudge of his own. "Ziva was peeved at Vance... when I came back from seeing Ducky, she told me he'd asked you if you had to kill them both."

Tony laughed – his tone was the same sardonic one he'd used last night on the rare occasions he'd spoken.

"I didn't particularly set out to kill them – although after I saw your poor damn' informant – well, his hands anyway – I can't say I was sorry. I just wanted to make sure I didn't have to deal with them while I was pulling you out, and there wasn't time for finesse. Near as I can tell, the Director accepted that."

Tim just looked at him; he had no idea that his head was on one side and his expression exactly the same as Tony's had been a few minutes previously. The SFA recognised it, however, and relented.

"Stating the obvious – none of us_ like _killing... But getting you out _was_ the priority, and Vance didn't disagree. You said the feel of the stuff round your legs wasn't the worst thing... but you were the McRope in a tug-of-war between me and the grey stuff... There you were, glassy-eyed, blood in your hair," he peered round Tim's head to look at the damage; "still heroically doing the right thing. I told myself I was going to get you out of there if it dislocated all our shoulders... but the goop was hanging on to you, and no-one was there to help... Very Special Agent DiNozzo was thinking 'what if I can't?'..."

He paused reflectively, and then grinned as if a switch had been flicked. "The noise as that concrete finally let go was like an elephant's fart."

"You've heard one?"

"No, but I've got a good imagination... eat your breakfast, McShrink."

He headed back to his own desk, intending to power up his computer, then groaned.

"What's up?"

"Well, my powers of deduction tell me that since Gibbs isn't here yet, he left this little lot for us before he went home last night. I was going to offer to take some of your files... a one off, for this campaign only deal, until I saw these." The stack on his desk, and on Ziva's, were just as tall as the one on Tim's. The Boss had a pile of his own too. "Bless him."

"I'm not complaining," Tim said ruefully, as he gingerly rolled his shoulders again, and bit on the last of his sub. "Maybe there'll be something interesting... let's see what your CORD can come up with."

Tony returned the rueful smile, and picked up the top file; for a while the only breaks in the silence were when Ziva and Gibbs arrived, within minutes of each other. Ziva looked at the top folder in her stack, and wondered if anybody really had a name like Elgin Hackenfaffer the Third; the Boss looked over his terrible twins, but made no comment on the hour. He simply disappeared, and came back ten minutes later with a tray of hot drinks.

Occasionally Tony would sneak a checking-up sort of glance at Tim; occasionally Tim would sneak a checking-up sort of glance at Tony. And occasionally they'd both do it at the same time, and laugh. After a while, however, Tony became aware that he was now the only one doing the checking, as the younger agent was becoming more and more engrossed in the file in front of him. He'd made space and spread out the contents of the folder on his desk, and gave the impression of trying to read all ten or so pages at once.

After he'd picked up one photograph after another and frowned over them, the SFA was just getting to the stage where his curiosity was going to get him a sharp word from Gibbs for not concentrating on his own cases, when Tim swivelled his chair round, and asked him,

"D'you know anything about aircraft crash investigation, Tony?"

"No," the SFA said dubiously, and then he smiled broadly. "But I know a man who does!"

**AN: I've started... so I'll have to finish, won't I?**


	2. Chapter 2

Oonagh's Faith

Author's note:_

I'm not sure if I should be doing this,but it's an attempt to see if I can bring my story back – my regular friends will know by now that it keeps disappearing, and I don't know why. I've reposted chapter one twice, and now it's disappeared again, (it's still intact on my live preview page, and the summary still appears on the site, but not the link,) and I haven't a clue what to do.

Can anyone advise?


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: First of all, thanks so much to everyone who rallied round to help last night after the site ate my story for the second time. It seems to have recovered now... she said nervously. **

**Thanks too to all the people who indulged me by sending a review a second time! (I'm such a sad person...)**

**If you haven't read my rather long-winded 'Prime Real Estate', you won't have come across Charlie Bingham. He was a young Catholic priest who offered wise words of comfort.**

**Lavall is a _fictional_ Naval airfield.**

**Sincere thanks to USAFChief for his very valued technical help in this story – he just might put in an appearance some time... **

Oonagh's Faith

Chapter 2

Tony frowned in curiosity at the spread of papers all over Tim's desk, and wandered over to have a look. Gibbs and Ziva both raised their heads, but accepted that they wouldn't crowd McGee until he was ready, and gave their attention back to their own files.

Tony looked sadly at the full colour photos, clearly taken from a helicopter, of a very destructive aircraft crash. "Guess no-one survived, huh?"

"No-one. The plane was a Navy C-26A, based at Lavall field, where they mostly do proving and training flights... two crew and five passengers. It could carry twelve... I'm _trying_ to think well that's seven people who didn't die... Came down five miles away from base, near Great Falls, March seventh, eight years ago, in woodland, or there'd have been casualties on the ground as well."

The SFA winced. "So what's got your interest?"

Tim took a deep breath. "It's odd," he said quietly. "The crash was blamed on an old component, but the part was never found, which strikes me as far too circumstantial -"

"Was blamed?" Tony didn't know why he was speaking as quietly as Tim. "Why's the case still open, then?"

Tim gave him a steady look, and lifted some of the documents off the file cover they'd arrived in. The brown card was stamped 'closed'.

Tony was puzzled. "How did it get in with the CCs?"

"It was stuck to the one above it, with dried coffee. I guess whoever filed them never noticed."

"OK," Tony persisted, "So what made you open it?"

"Tony, I have no idea. I almost didn't. Curiosity?"

DiNozzo grinned. He could go with that... "And?"

Tim bit his bottom lip and grimaced. "I'm not saying the guy _wasn't_ guilty... but he should never have been convicted on the evidence they had."

"The guy?" The SFA swept his glance over all the papers as if to suggest he couldn't read them all at once. "Sum it up then, McSuccinct," he told him.

"The mechanic who serviced the aircraft. Ardal Rourke. Don't say a foin Oirish name -"

"Wasn't going to, honest." Tony's pout made it clear Tim had just got in in time.

"He _was_ of Irish parentage, born in New York though. He said he'd replaced the part that was blamed for the crash. There was no mention of it in the repair log, and he was assumed to be lying to cover himself. He was only a few years off retirement age, and they accused him of being sloppy. I don't think someone with years of experience and looking forward to a pension would be sloppy, unless he was ill or something."

Tony just nodded and went on listening; it wasn't enough, but Tim clearly had more to say.

"I don't know anything about aircraft crashes... but the plane went into the ground nose first. The debris field was much smaller than if it had travelled along the ground for a distance, but they never _found_ the part they blamed - which was a steering linkage to the rudder."

"The parts they did find must have been mangled if it went in like you said – how can they be sure it wasn't something else?"

Tim frowned. "That's what's bugging me, Tony. I don't see how they _could_ be sure. I've been reading over it most of the morning, and I can't shake this feeling... I keep thinking 'fall guy'."

Tony was just nodding thoughtfully, when Gibbs cut in from across the bull-pen. "Ya been looking at a _closed_ case all morning, McGee?"

Tim looked rueful. He hadn't wanted the Boss to know he that was what he'd been doing unless he was sure there was something worth telling, and he'd appreciated Tony's discretion, but how reasonable had it _ever_ been to think Gibbs hadn't been taking notice? Well, he wasn't yelling... the young agent took a deep breath.

"Yes, Boss."

"So...?"

"It could all be true... but they arrived at the rudder by a process of elimination. There was no _proof_. No evidence that the logs were examined for evidence of tampering – it doesn't even say if they were hand-written or electronic – lots of other small things that make me think either the investigators were sloppy, or they took the easy way."

"Both 'bout the same thing. Any evidence that it was more than that? Deliberate?"

"A frame-up, Boss?"

"You said 'fall guy', Tim. That'd mean either he was the target, or he was set up to take the rap for somebody else." That was Tony again; if anyone would have sympathy for a possible victim of cooked up evidence, he would.

"Are we speaking simply of an attempt to shift the blame for negligence, or of someone causing the crash deliberately and blaming somebody else?" Ziva had looked up from her own file, her interest captured like the others.

"What do we know about the victims?" Gibbs asked.

"Three midshipmen hitching a ride to their next posting, the Base Commander at Lavall and his ADC; and the two crew, one experienced, the other not so. I've not done anything about pulling backgrounds yet, Boss, because I wasn't sure I should be doing anything at all... I just... started reading in a half-curious way... and got involved."

Gibbs thought for a moment. "Spend some time doing that if you like – see if anything stands out... if not, don't take any more time on it. There may be something... but you'd need to _find_ it."

"You don't have a problem with me looking at a case that's already closed, Boss?"

"Well, hell, no, McGee... if you reckon it shouldn't have been closed – but you'll sure have to come up with something good if you want it opened again." His glare said 'get on with it', but there was the ghost of a smile.

He picked up his glasses and was lowering his eyes back to his own file, when Ziva suddenly exclaimed "Wait!" They all looked at her in surprise as she hunted through her stack of files. "That date... here... you do not believe in coincidences, Gibbs... yes..." She extracted a file and carried it over to the team leader's desk. "It is very strange... I looked at this but could add nothing – a Naval Aviation Electronics Technician – killed by a hit and run driver, a mile from Lavall Base, _the day after the aircraft crashed."_

"That's too weird to be a coincidence," Tony said after a long pause. "Did he work at Lavall?"

"Yes," Ziva said instantly, as Gibbs looked for the answer in the file. Just because she could add nothing new did not mean she could not memorise the contents. "It is an airfield where upgrades are made to aircraft equipment, the refitted planes are tested, and any training in the new equipment is also given. AET... Iverson. Keith Iverson... he was an equipment fitter. He had worked there for...yes, two years."

"We keep this between ourselves for the time being," Gibbs said shortly. "No way do we let anyone know we're considering re-opening a case, yet. I'll take the victims. DiNozzo – Rourke, and everyone else working at that airfield at the time. Ziva – Everything you can about the crash, media, witnesses... McGee, get the details on what goes on at that airfield, and find out more about that log."

After an 'on it Boss' chorus there was silence for a moment, until Gibbs recalled what Tony had said earlier. "DiNozzo!" Tony looked up in surprise at the bark – he couldn't recall that he'd done anything to annoy the Boss, not this time... "You said you know a guy who knows about crashes... he any good?"

"Ah... when I was in Philly we dealt with the aftermath of a light aircraft crash... I trailed around in the chief investigator's wake for three days... partly to see what I could learn, and partly because since the pilot of the plane was a major player in the illegal betting world we figured the team might need protection. Turned out we were right... The guy knew what he was doing, Boss, and he wouldn't be 'persuaded' not to tell the truth, either..."

"Could he add anything to what we know? And -"

"And be trusted to keep his mouth shut? Oh yeah. I ran into him and his wife in Richmond last year; he's semi retired now – sorta guy who'll never really retire until they tie him down, but -"

"Can you _get_ him here?" Gibbs held his impatience in check, recalling that both of the Troublemint Twins were still on the low end of shock... just as it made Tim Stutter a little, it made Tony run off at the mouth... more than usual... The SFA grinned and dug out his address book as he lifted his desk phone.

"Have to offer him his air fare Boss... he lives in Texas... and a consultation fee, although he might do it for free..."

"He owe you, or somethin'?"

"What? Nah... he's just – Hi, Paul? Tony DiNozzo. Yeah, me... How're you doing? An' the family? No, not exactly..." After a few minutes chat he said goodbye and replaced the phone with another grin. "He'll be here tomorrow, Boss. Back to work..."

After an hour Gibbs went for coffee and reappeared with sandwiches. Amid the munching, notes were compared.

The airfield did no secret work, no classified equipment was ever installed there. The log had been hand-written, and the relevant pages were in NCIS's custody as evidence. It was in store at Falls Church, and Gibbs decided to go and collect it himself, as part of their investigation into the unsolved murder of the AET, Keith Iverson. He hoped that way if anyone were still keeping tabs after all this time, their suspicions wouldn't be aroused. "They can't cover their asses if they don't know they need covering..."

The victims' families had been sorrowful but not screaming for revenge – all except the widow of the Base Commander, who'd been loud in her condemnation of the mechanic, the pilots, the investigators, the grief counsellors, press harassment and everything else she could think of. Her husband's life insurance had been generous, and the Navy had also looked after her, as was their way, so she had no complaints about him or them.

There was nothing remarkable about any of the Base workers, including Ardal Rourke. He'd been sixty-one years old, fit for a man of his age, didn't wear glasses, or suffer from arthritis or any other complaint that would have made his job more difficult. His service record was unremarkable but impeccable. As a result of being blamed for the crash, he had been dismissed from the Navy, dishonourably discharged, and lost both his job and his pension, and Tony discovered he had died four years ago aged sixty-five. He too left a widow, and one child.

They wondered, collectively, whether visiting the Base Commander's widow would be a good or bad idea; she'd been vocal in the past, and no doubt could be again; and her financial profit from her husband's tragic death could be construed as motive; but she didn't have means or opportunity, so she was either innocent, or had an accomplice. They decided to go for it, and to visit Mrs Rourke as well.

Gibbs set off for Falls Church, Ziva, still intrigued by the strange coincidence, stayed to pull everything together that she could, and Tony and Tim set off to visit the widows.

Tim was silent as Tony drove; his friend's attempts at conversation answered politely but abstractedly, and nothing added, until the SFA got exasperated. "Hey! Earth to McGoo! Mr Flying-around-up-there-spaced-out... where the hell are you?"

Tim turned mildly astonished eyes towards him. "Er... sorry?"

"You're in your own McGeeful world... what's going on in there? Can anyone join in? Is it the case?"

"You'll laugh, Tony. I think I'd rather just think it."

Tony frowned. "I might... but it can't be the case then, cuz there's nothing to laugh about there. OK, I give up. I can't even guess. Shutting up now."

Tim could see he was fine with that – when Tony sulked (and if he were honest, he knew the SFA's method of dealing was usually more suck-it-up than sulk,) the whole of DC knew... but even so, he felt guilty. He'd been intending to tell Abby what he was thinking, but her reaction would have been biased in the other direction from what he imagined Tony's would be, so although he'd be relieving his feelings he wouldn't be any further forward. What was wrong with telling Tony?

"Gibbs doesn't believe in coincidence," he said flatly.

"It was a biggy... but what else could it have been?"

"OK... how come that file was the one that got coffee chucked on it... so that it just happened to stick to one that was checked out, no idea how many years later – on the same day, to the same team that was investigating a case that just has to be connected... you said yourself it was weird."

"Well, it is," Tony agreed reasonably. "We could check if and when those files were last signed out, if it would help. But you're right, it's stretching coincidence to snapping. What are you saying? Someone did it deliberately... or the Hand of Fate's at work?"

"Mmm... anyone who had the authority to do it deliberately was in a position to do something – not leave it and hope someone else would..."

"And glueing it with coffee's hit or miss anyway..."

"So yeah," Tim admitted finally, "I'm kind of thinking the Hand of Fate. I can't explain it any other way. Gibbs was letting me get away with it a bit, because of yesterday; he was telling me to investigate a token amount and then pull the plug – and at that moment, Ziva remembered the other case. We're meant to do this, whatever this is." He waited for the laugh.

It came, sure enough, but rueful and nervous, if such a word could apply to Tony. "Remember Father Charlie? _Father_ Charlie... younger than _us_? He said everything happens for a reason, and that we wouldn't believe him?"

"Yeah... except maybe I do... a bit..."

"I don't _not _believe him, McMystic," Tony said carefully, "but since I can't explain it, I'm not going to try."

"That's fair enough," Tim said, "but if any other coincidences come along, I'm not promising not to space out again."

"Also fair enough."

They drove on in thoughtful silence again, this time shared, until Tony slowed the car down as the SatNav beeped their destination. "Well, now," he said, "that could be taken as motive..."

The late Commander Guy Armstrong's widow lived in a double fronted Georgian style house in an acre of land, with a wrought iron gate and a semi-circular drive. A gardener at work at the front obligingly opened the gate for them, and warned them that Mrs Armstrong didn't take kindly to unexpected visitors. He was right. The immaculately dressed and styled forty-something who answered the door looked them up and down and said "I don't want to donate."

"That's fine, Ma'am, " Tony said smoothly, "because we're not collecting." He produced his badge. "Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo, Special Agent Timothy McGee, NCIS. Am I speaking to Mrs Georgina Armstrong?"

"You might be. What do you want?"

"We're investigating the murder of a Naval Technician, the day after your husband died, Ma'am. We know that at the time you were unhappy with the quality of the investigation, and we wondered if it reflected on our case. I'm sorry to bring up bad memories, but is there anything you can tell us?"

"It was all a long time ago... I've forgotten what I was angry about... except for the press, of course... those idiots always appearing at inopportune moments and sticking their microphones under my nose... and asking stupid questions... I was surrounded by incompetence – the grief counsellors – grief! What the blazes did they know about anything...and why the pilots couldn't have got the plane down safely – they were only a few miles from the base for heavens sake – the investigators were just a drop in the ocean. Saying I had motive... he paid the bills and he was hardly ever at home to get under my feet – why would I want to kill him?"

She began to turn towards her door, then swung back. "Oh, and why that wretched woman kept on insisting on her husband's innocence, when the evidence was right there in front of her... she's still doing it now. It's ridiculous. Anyway, it was all a long time ago like I said. There's nothing I can tell you." She swept back into the house and closed the door. The gardener gave them a wry wave as they drove away.

The two agents looked at each other and laughed.

"I always try to be a gentleman around the ladies," Tim said.

"But?"

"What a first class moo!"

"'_He paid the bills and didn't get under my feet'_" Tony parroted. "Have to say though, that I don't see her as a killer. I don't think the poor guy meant enough to her, love or hate..."

They drove into a more modest suburb, only a couple of miles from Mrs Armstrong's grand house, and came to a one storey shingle cottage. The garden was well tended, the brass knocker polished, the steps swept and the curtains clean and bright, so it wasn't immediately noticeable that the place needed a coat of paint, and repairs to the guttering and roof. It was the dwelling of a person with high standards, and low income.

For all her airs and money, Georgina Armstrong was nowhere near as much a lady as the elderly woman who opened her front door to them. Tall and straight, gaunt and slow moving, (both agents immediately suspected arthritis,) with bright, alert dark blue eyes and white hair, she looked at them with curiosity.

"Mrs Rourke?" Tony asked politely, and introduced himself and Tim.

"Yes," the lady said, with the ghost of an Irish accent. "I'm Oonagh Rourke... Come inside...I believe I've been expecting a visit from you for eight years."


	4. Chapter 4

**AN: Remember AJ Chegwidden from JAG? Always liked him... irascible Naval Gibbs...**

**And I know that according to the date I wrote 'Expecting Trouble' Lucy's maybe 15 months old, but I want to be there for her first birthday, so imagine the story took place LATER than I wrote it... **

**I did intend to get more of Gibbs and co back at the ranch, but Oonagh had more to tell than I first expected!**

Oonagh's Faith

Chapter 3

Nobody at Falls Church had shown the slightest curiosity about the evidence that Gibbs signed for, or the fact that he made his signature totally illegible, (more of the same) and less than an hour later he was depositing the box on his desk. He saw a post-it on his monitor in Ziva's handwriting: _with Abby_, so he headed down to the lab. The two women were looking at printouts spread on a table , and Ziva held a transcript of the mechanic Ardal Rourke's interrogation.

"Tell me again," Abby was saying, her nose, and a magnifying lens about six inches from the printout, "That exchange about the disputed word."

"Rear Admiral Chegwidden says, 'ASM Rourke -'"

"What's an ASM?"

"Er..."

"Aircraft Structural Mechanic," Gibbs informed them, and before Abby could squeak and bounce, added, "Go on..."

Ziva continued, "'ASM Rourke, the word here is rudder to push-rod linkage _satisfactory_, not _replaced_. Are you sure you didn't check it, think it was satisfactory, and not replace it? Are you sure you inspected it at all?' Rourke says, 'I didn't write _satisfactory_, sir, I wrote _worn, replaced_. I inspected it, it was worn, and I did replace it.' I think, if he were being honest here, Gibbs, then his honesty condemned him. If he'd checked it and written 'satisfactory', then he had done his job, and it was simply unfortunate that the linkage failed when it did, but by saying that is _not _what he wrote..."

"Don't assume... guilt or innocence. You both know we're after the truth here, whatever it is. But if he was innocent, yeah, his insistence on the truth, as he saw it, made him look like he was covering his ass. Got the real thing on my desk, that better than a printout?" This time Abby did squeal. "Kay... gonna talk to Chegwidden."

He marched out; and Ziva winked at Abby. "I'll bring it down," she said, and followed him.

NCISNCISNCIS

The air was chilly as the sun began to drop in the sky; the little house was cold, and Oonagh Rourke wore a thick, hand knitted sweater. There was a log fire laid in the grate, but she hadn't lit it, and Tony noticed, glancing through the window into the rear yard, that the log pile was very small. It fitted with the other things he'd seen, but he didn't let his face betray his thoughts.

They'd wanted to ask her right away what she'd meant, but she'd smiled gently. "First things first, boys," (and they'd somehow been entirely comfortable with that form of address,) "Let me get you something warm to drink." She'd sat them down on the sofa; there was a tall wing-chair at a slight angle to it, that was clearly hers – easier to rise from than the low sofa, especially for someone whose joints weren't what they used to be. She'd disappeared into the kitchen, and the 'boys' quietly looked round the room.

There were beautiful things... underneath the front window an old oak blanket chest made a seat with hand tapestried cushions; on one wall a tall, Edwardian Broadwood piano in a walnut case with a deep, glowing patina and candles in shiny brass sconces, held photos in silver frames. A tall beech dresser stood opposite it, with beautiful blue and white English china on display, and a long-cased Russell of Liverpool clock ticked patiently on the wall. The rug on the wooden floor was worn, and the sofa and chairs were nothing much, but covered in cheerful quilts and throws; everywhere gleamed and shone, and Tim was trying to put it all into Gemcity language in his mind.

When W. M. Thackeray had invented the phrase 'shabby-genteel', he hadn't meant it as a compliment, but it had entered the English language and morphed into something that summed up the elderly lady exactly; she kept her dignity and standards in the face of hardship. Her husband had lost his pension, he recalled, leaving people who should have been able to enjoy comfortable retirement to struggle, and in his case, to die. There was a story here, and, he was absolutely certain, a wrong that needed righting.

As she carried a tray into the room, Tim jumped up to take it from her and put it on the low table by the sofa.

"Let me help you with that, Ma'am."

"Ach, Oonagh, please. It's not often I have such handsome young men visiting me, so don't you 'ma'am' me out of my enjoyment!" She poured tea from a white Spode teapot, into cups with gold rims, and caught Tony looking appreciatively at the lovely, translucent china. "There... only the best for visitors," she said cheerfully. "Home-made shortbread... you try it... I don't bake very often, but you're in luck. Whish... doesn't that sound big-headed... but you try it boys, it's good, although I say it myself."

She went on smiling, and they could both detect without even trying, the pain beneath the smile.

They sampled the shortbread, and Tony wished out loud that he could taste this every day rather than the processed stuff from the mall, and their hostess's eyes twinkled, until he set his cup down and asked gently, "Oonagh... we understand about the eight years, but why have you been expecting a visit from NCIS for all of that time?"

The elderly lady's eyes grew pensive. She sat up straight in her chair and clasped her hands, composing herself. "It was such an injustice, you see, and in the end it had him thinking that maybe they were right..." she looked Tony, who'd asked the question, in the eye. "It was a poor, weak excuse for an investigation," she said finally. "Personnel kept changing; the ones who took over scarcely understood what the ones before had told them... he kept on having to repeat his statement, but no-one believed him... NCIS were hampered by the crash site investigators, and in the end they backed out – I think they were told to, and left it all to JAG. I thought he had a chance when Admiral Chegwidden was in charge – after that it was certain that he'd be blamed. They said he lied... and after that they wouldn't listen at all... it destroyed him, you know..."

She looked at the wing chair, twin of her own but for its shorter legs, that sat beside the fire. Tony misunderstood her glance, and got up. "Do you want me to light it?" He saw her hesitation, and went on, "Hey, I noticed your log-pile's low, but I've got a load at home... Mrs. Birney, my landlady... lives below me... she just had a gas range put in, instead of her old wood-burner... and she was asking me if I knew anyone who'd take the logs off her hands. She's giving them away! I'll bring them over later on, to tide you over until you get your next delivery."

Tim knew that was pure baloney – Tony's building was heated from a temperamental central boiler, and all the residents perished on a regular basis... just one of the reasons Tony so frequently slept at his desk. But if Oonagh knew, she didn't say, and her pride was salvaged.

"There's not the warmth in the sun at this time of year," she said ruefully, "and my bones do feel it... I'm not as old as I look, boys... I shan't turn seventy for another two months... but the arthritis – it ages a girl, you know... there's a box of matches in the footstool there, and the jar of spills..."

Tony followed her pointing finger, and spotted the spills, standing in a little engraved glass jar, which he thought was Stuart Crystal. He'd learned a bit about antiques as a cop... he wondered inconsequentially where anyone bought spills these days, and then that Oonagh's house was a little treasure trove, and he hoped her security was up to date. It probably wouldn't be...

Only after the fire was lit did Tony realise that she'd been looking at the chair, and he knew that this had been her husband's favourite spot, and he had to smother down the wave of sadness that washed over him. He came back to the sofa and sat down again, and Oonagh took another deep breath.

"I always had faith... I always believed that someone would see it differently in the end... Ardal did at first... he was a strong man, he'd been a strong man since the day we met. He had hope... but it began to die."

Tim had no idea why he said "Tell us about him." (He told Tony later that he had a sudden desire to know the other person he was fighting for.)

Oonagh smiled gently. "His parents came from Connemara," she said slowly, "A place called Kilkerrin – that's where I grew up. There were lots of Irishmen earning good money in the NYPD, including a cousin of Derry's, everyone's a cousin of some sort, don't you know... and he and Lil came over. When Ardal grew up, he wanted to know about his roots, so he went back on his very first long leave from the Navy. I took one look at this fine young American, and that was that."

She looked round the room, memories all around her. "He couldn't understand why I'd want to leave a place like Kilkerrin for New York – once he'd seen it he couldn't understand why his mum and dad had ever left... but I told him I'd leave everything and everybody for him... and I never once regretted it. The Navy, and the Church... they helped us with him marrying a foreigner and all that stuff – I had to convince them I didn't just want to get into the country... the Navy were brilliant about bringing all my Grandma's stuff – my bottom drawer, you know."

"Bottom drawer?" Tony had to clarify, although he figured he could work it out.

"To be sure... all the young girls had things they saved for when they got married... a hope chest, you know? Grandma Driscoll kept mine – you can't keep a piano in a bottom drawer... well, we got everything here a bit at a time... I naturalised four years after we got married, we found this house and lived here ever since and I'd do it all over again.

"About him... that's what you really asked... He was content with life... he never asked for too much out of it. He was good at his job, he took pride in it, and he rose as high in the ratings as he could. When he got there, he was happy to just go on being good, taking pride... he wasn't hugely ambitious, he just wanted us to be happy. He was funny, patient, gentle, it took a lot to get him mad... he loved classical music and literature, and didn't care how many of the youngsters he trained knew it..."

She glanced over her shoulder. "He played the piano... He was the best husband a girl could have wished for; a loving -" her voice faltered for a moment, "- a loving father; he put both of us before himself... on his postings overseas he kept in touch faithfully, the best way he could – I was so happy when he came home for good and was posted to Lavall, don't you know... having him come home every night..."

Her voice trailed away and she was silent for a while.

"We had a daughter, Niamh, no others came along but we were both content with that... she was always our pride and joy... did well at school, went to university, became a journalist, married a Naval man, we were so happy..."

"Were?" Tony almost feared to ask.

"After the crash," Oonagh said painfully, "Niamh wrote to me. Just me, not her dad. Couched in beautiful English, like the educated person she is, saying that because her father's negligence had killed Naval personnel, and his attempts to deny it were embarrassing, neither she nor her husband, James, as a Naval family, thought it wise to associate with us any more. Not much more than that... but she has been as good as her word. She calls herself Naomi these days... I know I have a grand-daughter, called Isobel, almost four now... She's gone as far from Irish as she can. I think she'd drop the mutual acquaintance who tells me these things, if she knew she was talking to me. It broke my heart... you can imagine what it did to Ardal..."

"Don't know if we can," Tony said, horrified. "You've had no contact since? Nothing?"

"The mutual acquaintance suggests that James would be happy enough to get in touch, but Niamh thinks the whole thing is shaming and doesn't want anything to do with the past.." Oonagh's voice was steady, but her eyes spoke of years of pain. "I would like to know more about my grand-daughter..."

"I have a god-daughter," Tony said quietly. "Lucy... she's not a year old yet. It'd take me apart never to see her again."

Oonagh simply nodded. "It ate Ardal away gradually," she told them. "He never laughed, seldom smiled... He didn't enjoy food, couldn't be bothered to eat, said since we were broke anyway, why waste money on food for him! He lost weight... He stopped going to Church. The Parish Priest came round and asked if he'd like him to bring him communion at home, and see if he could see himself coming back one day – he was very understanding – but Ardal threw him out of the house. He said he'd never forgive God...

"When we heard, three weeks after the event, that Isobel had been born, he didn't speak for three days. He kept on wondering if he really had remembered it wrong... that he hadn't done the work. He kept on asking if he really did kill seven people... nothing I could say got through to him. He had a series of minor strokes, then a massive one, and died almost four years to the day after the crash."

She stood up, and walked over to the chair by the fire, running her hand sadly along the arm.

"I sometimes feel as if he's sitting here watching me," she said sadly. "I turn round quickly, because I'm certain he's there... I hope to see him, but he's gone..." She looked Tim, then Tony straight in the eyes. "The day I turn... and he's here, sitting in this chair... I'll know he's come for me. And I'll go with him. I want to. I'll know he's happy, and I'll be happy with him again." She was saying something more than her words, and they reached for what it might be.

She went to the piano and picked up an old colour photo in a pretty frame. She held it out and Tim took it. "That's so green," he said wonderingly, "It has to be Ireland."

Oonagh let her Irish accent come to the fore. "It is, to be sure, Tim McGee. And those two dots on top of the hill there, that's a young couple without a care in the world..."

She returned the photo to its place, came back and sat on the edge of the coffee table. She took a hand of theirs each into her knotted old ones, and the violet-blue eyes regarded them earnestly. "You've not said anything, and you don't need to tell me anything yet," she said. "I had faith that some day, somebody would care, and I knew what you were doing here as soon as I saw you. I still have faith."

"We're part of a team, Oonagh," Tim said. "We all care. You keep that faith."

As they headed towards the front door, Tony said, "I'll drop the logs off later."

"You're a good boy," Oonagh said. "You know I'm broke..."

"That's something else we'll fix," he replied with certainty. "When we -"

"Don't tell me anything, dear. I'll just trust you."

"Oonagh..." Tim sounded quite diffident, "Would you let me come back and check that your security system is adequate? You have some beautiful things..."

"And they're all for my grand-daughter," she said proudly. "My Granny's things... I wouldn't want the wrong people to get them..." Again, there was a hidden message.

They both found themselves hugging her, gently in case they damaged that fragile frame, but feeling as if they'd known her for a very long time. "We'll be back, Oonagh."

Tim was the first to speak as they drove away. After thinking for a few minutes, he said, "You're thinking back-pay. Can we do it? We've gotta do it."

"Oh, we will. She deserves justice, and the person who really did it deserves to go to hell."

"Not an accident, then?" Tim's question was more of a statement, and Tony just raised his eyebrows, inviting him to say more. "All the blocking, changing personnel, putting difficulties in the way... somebody much more powerful than AST Rourke committed full scale, premeditated murder."

Tony nodded. "We'll see what the Boss and Ziva have got. What about the hidden messages?"

"I wasn't imagining them, then?"

"She's saying that she's ready to die, as soon as the time is right. She wants us not to disbelieve her, or try to chivvy her out of that mindset.

"But d'you think she's suicidal? I didn't think..."

"No, no, relax, neither did I. Just sad."

"But the next life's just as attractive to her as this one... and she wants us to accept that... and... and she wants us to see that her grand-daughter gets her things..."

"Not her daughter..."

"Tony, how the hell would we do that?"

"Tim, I have no idea."

And for a long time, as they drove, neither of them said a word.

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

**AN: I really don't know if a forgery could be carried out in the way I describe; maybe if nobody was bothered to look too closely.**

**I not only don't own or profit from anything to do with NCIS, btw, but the same goes for JAG. And who remembers that the AJ of Chegwidden stands for Albert JETHRO?**

Oonagh's Faith

Chapter 4

Gibbs rang the bell of the tall house overlooking Gunston Cove; the man who answered the door a moment later greeted him with a grin.

"Gibbs, hello – come in... so you're still in the business of finding work for my old department, then."

"Well, Admiral, it'd be nice if we didn't have to... So, all that globe-trotting, and you ended up just a few miles from base. Nice spot."

"You know how it is..." Gibbs followed AJ Chegwidden through to his kitchen, where he reached for a coffee pot that was clearly an ever present feature of the room. "Got to keep an eye on the kids... have a seat." There were two well-stuffed, well-used chairs by the range; the retired JAG boss's kitchen seemed to be the heart of his house. He handed Gibbs a mug and sat down himself, opposite the agent; two people who both knew they shared a name, and who would never, ever comment on it. "So, Gibbs, the Great Falls crash... what do you want to know?"

"Your recollections... the suspect... your feelings about him when you questioned him."

"Ah. Well, now... he stood up to me... I kept on asking if he was sure he'd done one thing, when the log in his own handwriting said he'd done the other... but he never wavered. I honestly couldn't tell whether he was telling the truth as it was, or the deluded truth as he saw it. I know he believed what he was saying. I asked for more forensic evidence, but before anything else emerged, I was asked by another high ranking officer, to take a very discreet look at a possible commission of fraud, involving a third senior man, and I had to leave the case to others." He sighed. "It turned out to be a complete fuss over nothing, anyone could have handled it... and it was at that point that life got complicated, and I decided to retire and go travelling. I never got to know anything more about the Rourke case."

Gibbs, like everyone else, had heard the sad scuttlebutt about what made Chegwidden quit the service, but it wasn't his business, and he simply nodded. "Two questions, then, Admiral – what forensics did you ask for, and who was the person who asked you to investigate the fraud?"

"Mmm... I asked for the log to be looked at for signs of tampering; and it was Rear Admiral Alan Charlesworth... man I've known for years... didn't want the other guy's name damaged if he hadn't done anything, which he hadn't... like I said, mountain out of a molehill... where's all this going, Gibbs?"

"I'm not sure yet, to be truthful... but I don't think those forensics you asked for were ever done... I'll keep you posted if you're interested." He drained his coffee and rose from the comfortable chair.

The Admiral frowned. "If there's been a miscarriage of justice because I didn't stay on the case... yeah, I'd like to know about it."

"You know it doesn't do any good to second guess like that – whatever happened, sure as hell wasn't your fault -"

"I hear you... but I still have some... er... influence... if there's anything I can do to make it right, you let me know."

"I'll do that, Admiral. In the mean time, I'd appreciate it if you kept it to yourself for now."

"Surely." They shook hands, old colleagues and adversaries, and Gibbs went thoughtfully back to his car. Time to see what the Troublemi – dammit, what _DiNozzo_ and_ McGee_ had come up with.

It was Tim's voice he heard first as he stepped from the elevator. "... called fifteen minutes ago to say he was on his way back, Abby. I imagine he will agree... it was good enough to fool a sloppy investigation, but not you."

"Not just me, Tim... any good forensic scientist could have seen it if they'd been asked -"

"Asked what, Abbs?"

Abby and Tim moved aside so that Gibbs could see the pages on Gibbs' desk, and what was blown up on the plasma screen. "It was forged, Gibbs – and like I just said, it could have been spotted if anyone had looked. See... AST Rourke's log entry takes up the bottom of one page, and the top of the next. On the first page, the ink is from a standard Papermate. On the second, it's from a laser printer. When I looked at the copy, I was trying to see any discolouration that might have meant bleaching out... but it was a long shot anyway on a copy... but with the real thing – it's clear what they did.. They destroyed the original, after saving the writing as far as the word linkage, then they took the word 'satisfactory' from another of Rourke's log entries. Not the last one, they were too smart for that, but here..."

She picked up a copy of the log, dated three months before the crash, and put it alongside the disputed one on the screen. The two words were identical. "They printed it out onto the new page, then the later log entries that should have filled the page were re-handwritten. Gibbs, they framed that poor man... and Tim says his widow's very poor, and we -"

"Abbs... OK, why 'they'?"

"Because, Gibbs, the handwriting that was rewritten is Iverson's – the guy who was hit by the car! There was him – Tim says he has to have been in on it to have redone the log – and the person who killed him -"

"Who was high enough to order a cover-up, Boss."

Gibbs nodded. "Got a name for you," he told Tim. "Rear Admiral Alan Charlesworth... took Chegwidden away from the investigation just when he was getting suspicious. Coincidence?"

Tim shook his head, already hurrying to his computer. Gibbs looked round.

"Where's DiNozzo? And Ziva?"

"Gone to the airfield, Boss. And to have a look at the crash site. Tony said I looked 'McPeaky', and told me to stay here and take over Ziva's information gathering."

Gibbs looked closely at the younger man. "Well, yeah, you do. Ya wanna take the rest of the day? Case's been eight years, it'll keep another day or two."

"Thought about it, Boss, but Ziva's pulled a lot of good background, but there's nothing of use yet, and she can't dig as deep as I can – I've met Mrs Rourke, and I need to help her."

Two sets of accusing eyes turned towards him.

"_I_, McGee?"

Tim had the grace to blush when he realised what he'd said. "Ah. That came out wrong. No 'I' in team. I know, Boss. But... she's..."

"Ya told Abby what you found yet?"

"Tell us both, then."

The younger agent was McSuccinct, as Tony had said, but left nothing out, including his and Tony's growing feeling that they were on a mission here, and Gibbs nodded.

"Well, we know we're onto something. I'll put the Director in the picture -" He broke off as Tim suddenly looked back at his screen. "Anything?"

"Retired Vice Admiral Alan Frederick Charlesworth." He studied for a few moments. "This stands out, Boss... Left the Navy six years ago, to found 'Flyright', a company that's been responsible for some pretty good innovations in aircraft controls and crew seating. More comfortable suits, easier to read instrumentation... little details that a pilot would notice I guess..."his voice slowed down as he realised the significance of what he was seeing. "Their first four patents were originally applied for by Lieutenant Mark Welensky, the younger of the two pilots who died in the crash. The company took up the patents because the application hadn't been completed by the time he died. There's some dispute continuing to this day between Flyright and the Lieutenant's executors over the legality of it."

"That'd work as motive... who are Welensky's heirs?"

"On it, Boss..."

NCISNCISNCIS

They'd come along a scarcely defined, seldom used path through woodland; there was enough daylight left when they reached the crash site for them to take it all in, but they knew they shouldn't linger. Undergrowth patched the sides of the crater, and a few spearheading saplings had established themselves in the eight years. There was evidence that people had left flowers, but certainly not recently; a few more years and no-one would know what had happened here.

After standing quietly for a while, Tony pointed and said, "If Rourke didn't cause this, somebody did. And they've got away with it."

"You are sure, then, that Rourke was innocent, Tony."

"Yeah, I am. I know your search hadn't turned up anything solid yet... but -"

"It is all right, Tony. You do not have to convince me. They should not get away with it any longer. This is a sad place; let us leave."

"Sure," Tony agreed, taking one last glance as they turned to go, superimposing a crash site photograph he remembered on the scene he was looking at. In his mind, the tailplane hung at a grotesque angle; without its rudder it looked like an ugly grey hook that would never lift the aircraft back into the sky. "The airfield's less than five miles away."

As they turned in through the gates of Lavall Field, Ziva's phone buzzed. She listened, said "Ah – thank you," and disconnected. "That was Tim," she said. "You said you had nothing to ask the Commander that might make him uncomfortable."

"Yeah..." Tony replied thoughtfully. "I still thought it was a good idea to just get the feel, you know... but tell me McGee's mcgot something."

"At just the right time! He has been going through the data I pulled, and discovered that in the ten days after the crash, the entire personnel list here changed. Every single person but the newly in charge Commander Naylor was posted away – by his orders – and new staff were brought in. I wonder why?"

"Does McGee know if this is a regular thing?"

"He checked... it is not."

"Well, we'll ask, shall we?"

As they stepped out of the car, they could hear an upraised voice.

"... don't care about that, Seaman _Apprentice_ Reeves. What did I tell you yesterday?"

"That you run a tight ship, Sir."

"That's right. I run a tight ship. So I don't care if what you want is at the back of the store... you will stack everything neatly as you remove it, not spread it over the tarmac like a flea market. And when you've found what you're looking for, you will unstack it and put it back in the store neatly. I will be back to see that you have done, Seaman Apprentice. And if you ever want to make Seaman you had better start taking notice of what I tell you. Is that clear?

"Sir, yes Sir!"

The two watchers observed the size of the crates that the young man had been moving; they were large and heavy. What was more, they were only going to be there a short time if the young man found what he was looking for immediately. Now he had to stack the crates before he could even look for it. The Commander was subjecting the kid to an exercise in futility just for the sake of exercising his authority. Both agents decided they already disliked Guy Armstrong's successor.

Commander Richard Naylor sat behind his desk steepling his fingers. He didn't invite the two agents to sit, so Tony pointedly placed a chair for Ziva, but chose to stand himself, and occasionally prowl.

Yes, the Commander had taken over from his superior, Guy Armstrong when he was killed. No, the Commander didn't know of any reason why anyone would want to kill anyone on that flight. The Commander had transferred all the other personnel because they were either too upset – he spoke the word with derision – to do their jobs, or they gossiped about the crash like old women. He ran a tighter ship than that. They hadn't liked his sharpening up... but he'd warned them that if he were ever put in command, he'd do a better job. People accepted his standards or went elsewhere.

Yes of course he'd wanted the promotion, it was an officer's duty to better himself.

No, the Commander hadn't known AET Iverson personally; he'd never fraternised with the ratings and he wasn't going to start. No, he didn't really know ASM Rourke either... he'd always thought the man was good enough at his job if a bit doddery. He'd been surprised to find he was wrong; he was a very good judge of people.

Neither agent looked at the other, or reacted at all; but both thought that didn't tie in with the ageing but fit man the report had described.

Naylor lit a cigarette, and Ziva smiled inwardly. That was the sort of opening she'd been looking for. She coughed slightly, rose, said "Excuse me," and went outside.

Naylor didn't comment, but simply smiled thinly. He didn't seem to notice that the tall agent's prowling placed him between the Commander and the door.

"Tell me what you can remember about the day of the crash..."

Outside Ziva headed straight for the young apprentice, who was by now lifting the crates down from their out-door stack, and putting them back in the store.

"Did you find what you wanted?" a light female voice asked, and he looked round – it was the young woman he'd seen going to Naylor's office with a tall guy.

"Yes ma'am," he said politely, taking in the badge and gun, and firmly suppressing any desire to ogle. He suspected he'd end up broken in half if he did.

Ziva introduced herself. "The Commander... he has an obsession with trivia?"

Seaman Apprentice Reeves didn't know if he should be talking about his boss, but he disliked him enough to feel rebellious. "Too much of one, Agent David. Puts appearance before efficiency... but hey -" he brightened - "He'll be gone soon, and they can't send us anyone worse."

"Gone? He is leaving?"

"Well, he doesn't talk to the likes of us, but we know he's retiring in three months time – and the scuttlebutt is he's going off to work for Flyright... how does a guy like him walk into a company like that? Butt says some bigwig friend of his runs it. Me, I just hope the butt's right, and he's gone!"

Ziva smiled sympathetically and wandered away, angling past the office window so that Tony could see that she was done and heading for the car. She suspected he wouldn't want to stay in the company of that wind-fall... wind-pump... no... _windbag_! That was it – he'd want to get away from that windbag as soon as possible.

NCISNCISNCIS

They were pleased to find pizza and hot drinks waiting, after a drive back with the setting sun red and splendid on their right... nobody had expected to be here so late on a cold case day, and they were all hungry.

"So..." Gibbs summed up, "we can make a scenario here..."

"Rear Admiral Charlesworth wants the young pilot's patents," Tim said.

"Commander Naylor wants Armstrong's job," Tony added.

"They need Iverson's help to put the blame on Rourke," Abby agreed, holding up the log evidence.

"So after they have brought a plane down and committed the cold-blooded murder of five unfortunate people as well as the two they intended to kill, they – or one of them, most likely Naylor, runs down the one person who can tell what happened."

Gibbs nodded. "And Charlesworth's perfectly placed to make sure that the investigation goes nowhere."

"NCIS would have done better," Tony said bitterly.

"Yeah...," Gibbs said. "We would. I called Cynthia Sumner on the off chance... the girl's got a great memory. She remembered Admiral Charlesworth ringing to speak to Jenny and offering to take the whole investigation off NCIS's hands. Since he was a friend she agreed. Why would she not?"

He pushed the empty pizza box away. "Nothing more we can do until your expert arrives, Tony..."

"Oh, Paul will be here, Boss, don't you worry."

"I'm not, Tony! Go home everyone, we'll start again in the morning."

NCISNCISNCIS

It wasn't easy, even with help from the timberyard guys, getting two sacks of logs into the trunk of Tony's Mustang, (because of course, having said he had logs going spare, he had to_ find _some,) but he did it. Pulling up outside Oonagh's house ten minutes later, he was stunned to see Tim's car coming from the other direction. And then of course, he wasn't.

"Ya know, maybe you and I should actually tell each other what we're up to?"

Tim laughed. "Maybe we should. I thought about it too late – but I sorta expected to find you here." He looked at the log-filled trunk. "I should back that lot up to the front gate if I were you... s'pose you're going to want help moving them?"

"I thought you'd never ask..."

Fifteen minutes later, Tim was brushing moss and sawdust off his hands as he went back to his car. He removed a grocery sack from the back and carried it into the house as Tony was bringing a few logs indoors from the replenished pile.

""What's this, Tim?"

"Well, Oonagh, I thought I'd make you a deal... I'll trade you some groceries and a check of your security system, for a batch of that shortbread we had this lunch-time." Tony looked wounded. "And a batch for Tony – how's that?"

Oonagh laughed, a soft, musical sound. "You lovely boys... you don't have to ask." She went off into the kitchen chuckling, and they heard her singing "Momma's little baby loves short'nin' bread", in a light soprano that was still sweet and true, until she emerged with a large tin. They were happy to hear her surge of good humour. "I made some more -"

She froze in the doorway, clutching the tin, her face whitening. Her hand flew to her face. "Och," she said in horror, "I thought I'd burned that!"

Tony was straightening up from the log basket, in his hand was a piece of scuffed card he'd found caught in the bottom. He held it out to the old lady, his eyes hot. "Oonagh," he said furiously, "what the blazes is _this_?"

TBC

**AN: What's Tony found to make him so mad?**


	6. Chapter 6

**AN: I don't know whether the two tiny confrontations in this chapter are in character or not, but everyone can't be nice to each other all the time...**

Oonagh's Faith

Chapter 5

Tim stiffened, ready to jump to Oonagh's defence, shocked at the anger in his friend's voice, but as he looked from one to the other, he brought himself up short. He saw that the anger was directed at the card in Tony's hand, not at the woman, and although Oonagh was looking apologetic and a little guilty, she certainly wasn't upset or frightened by the SFA's fury.

"Och, boys..." she said soothingly, "Tony... I really thought I'd burned it... I didn't mean for you to see that... There's no need for you to bother yourselves over it, it doesn't bother _me_ any more..."

Tony's voice shot up. "_'Any more'_? Sweetheart, how long has this been going on?"

The old lady didn't answer straight away, as he silently handed the card to Tim, his face by now a mask of calm. She gestured towards the sofa, and the senior agent moved across as she went to sit in her tall chair. Tim stayed rooted to the spot, staring at the thing, his hand shaking slightly. It was a very masculine birthday card, with a stylish picture of an aircraft on the front, and small, precise handwriting inside.

_Happy Birthday. I hope you're rotting in hell, you lying, murdering bastard. I hope your wife wakes up every morning missing you with an ache in her guts that burns her up. I hope she has nightmares. I hope she starves. Maybe she hates you. She should hate you. I hope she hates you. I hate you. You killed them all, why does the stupid cow keep, saying you didn't? I hope she joins you in hell. I hope she dies. Really really soon._

"Oonagh..." Tim found his voice, after a fashion, "Why didn't you _tell_ us?"

"Tim... I didn't want to make life any harder for her... she lost someone too..."

"Why do you say 'she'? Don't tell me you_ know_ who this is!"

"Not exactly..." Oonagh still managed to look guilty. "Sometimes she says 'you took him away from me'... I just think it's a wife, or mother... I think a father would be different... I'd be angry too, don't you know..."

"'Sometimes'...so, how long _have_ you been getting these things?" Tim sat down heavily beside Tony.

"Ah, well now, the first one came a few days after the inquiry gave its findings. It broke Ardal's heart... after that I made sure I always got to the mail before he did. They arrive on anniversaries... his birthday, mine... our wedding anniversary, dammit all, how she knows that I've no idea... I never ever let Ardal see another one." She sighed. "Not Niamh's birthday – it seems she knows we're estranged... They come on the crash date, the verdict date... I thought they'd stop when he died, but they come on that anniversary now as well."

"They won't come any more," Tim told her grimly, and was astonished at her reaction.

"Och, let it lie, Tim. I'm used to it... if it helps her to let her anger out and grieve, I can take that."

"Why should you? She's been letting her anger out and grieving for _eight years,_ at your expense, Oonagh!"

"She lost someone she loved, Tim. I understand. Let her grieve."

Tim shook his head in wonderment. "That's a very brave and selfless attitude," he said sadly.

Tony made an impatient sound in his throat that made Tim blink and glare, and Oonagh turn those violet-blue eyes on him in mild reproach, but he was unmoved. "Brave, selfless and _wrong_." The chill in his tone, after the previous anger, stood the hairs up on the back of Tim's neck.

"Tony..." Oonagh began to protest, but he simply held up a hand. He softened his attitude by leaning forwards and taking her hands.

"You do_ not_ have to atone for a crime you didn't commit. You do _not_ have to take her pain, because you didn't cause it. You do _not_ have to tolerate this. And Tim's right. You won't be receiving any more of them. Sending Poison Pen letters is a crime, and that it's against _you_ is a bigger one as far as we're concerned.."

"But -"

"We're Federal Agents, Oonagh. We don't let people get away with crimes."

Oonagh looked at him as if he'd become the Avenging Angel of the Apocalypse, and when Tim hunched himself forward alongside him, she realised the Angel had two heads, with but one single intent.

"I'm glad it didn't get burned, Oonagh. We were meant to find it, and we _will_ fix it."

"Meant to find it," Tony said as they walked to their cars. "Was that you being McMystic again?"

(They'd made a meal for the three of them from some of the provisions Tim had brought, and plied Oonagh into a happier mood with more of a good Chablis than they'd had themselves. When they left she'd been rather woozily heading for her bed. _Goodnight... you're lovely boys, don't you know..._)

"Yeah... I think it was. If she'd burned all the others, what got that one stuck in the bottom of the basket? I have to think it's that – it was meant even though she didn't -" He broke off.

"Yeah? What... ah. You think I over-rode her wishes."

"Well, you _did._ She was pretty definite..."

"Yeah, well. I didn't want her replacing one lot of misplaced guilt with another, so I didn't tell her – this person's unbalanced... maybe there are other people being targeted. Not that that changes anything – if Oonagh's the only one involved, it's still got to stop. It's disgusting and cruel and she doesn't deserve it. Damn, even if she thinks she does! OK, yes, I actually felt I knew better than she did about it. Comes of being a cop I suppose... Yeah... arrogant. Did I do wrong?"

His tone was slightly edgy; insecurity camouflaged by a bit of belligerence. Tim was astonished to realise how much his good opinion counted with his friend.

"No," he reassured, "No, you didn't... like you said, we're feds. It hurt her, it's a crime – and we don't pick and choose which crimes to deal with -"

"And which to ignore." Tony looked thoughtful. "OK... thanks. So... see you in the morning."

"Yeah. G'night."

"Oh, and McGee? Early start tomorrow – do _not _go back to the Navy Yard and start looking tonight, right? You did bring it with you, didn't you?" A statement more than a question.

Tim cheerfully waved an evidence bag as he got into his car.

NCISNCISNCIS

Abby found the culprit twenty minutes after being given the card next morning. On a hunch she began with the three mothers of the dead midshipmen, and never had to look at the wives of the two officers or the older plot, or the fiancee of the younger one, now struggling to bring up his son alone, without any of the money the young pilot's patents should have brought her.

(She'd have liked, having heard Tim's description of her, to have hung it on Georgina Armstrong, but it wasn't to be.)

She found examples of their handwriting that was in the public domain, and identified the widowed mother of the youngest man immediately. After a quick discussion, they agreed not to act until they'd proved Ardal Rourke's innocence, but they arranged with USPS to have anything she posted with Oonagh's address on it intercepted.

"I tried to raise prints as well," Abby told them, "but it had been in the log basket, and although Tony and Tim handled it as little as possible, I only got tiny partials of theirs. Everything else was too degraded. But the writing should be enough -"

She broke off as an agent escorted a visitor into the bull-pen. He was a tall man, with an upright, military bearing; he had to be in his sixties, but his hair, brushed back, was still dark, with only a hint of grey at the temples. He looked like someone who smiled more than he frowned, was fit, and pretty alert, considering, as the SFA knew, that he'd caught a very early flight from Dallas.

Tony whooped with delight, crossed the pen in two long, loping strides, and grasped the newcomer's hand. He pulled him into an enthusiastic hug, which was returned.

"Hey, Paul... good to see you... you're looking well – Hey, I'd have come to the airport if you'd called!"

"Oh, I took a taxi, saw the sights... not been to DC in a while. You're not looking so bad yourself, kid. You seemed happy enough last time I saw you – you still OK? Lin sends her love, by the way."

"That's kind... how is your lovely wife? Did you tell her I still want to run away with her?"

The older man chuckled. "Oh yeah... When she heard _you'd_ called and wanted my advice, she said well, get gone, then. So..". he looked at the rest of the team, who were watching with varying degrees of impatience, "You found people who can handle you, then?"

"Whatever," Tony said cheerfully. "The Boss, Jethro Gibbs. My old friend, Paul Forrest, retired from NTSB."

"Good of you to come, Mr Forrest," Gibbs said as they shook hands.

"Paul. My pleasure, Agent Gibbs. Semi-retired, believe me. Can't seem to keep away – and I have still got my eye in. Just returning a favour – I told that young man a long time ago he only had to shout."

Tony got in rather quickly. "My team-mates, Tim McGee, Ziva David, forensic scientist, Abby Sciuto." The visitor managed to look very appreciative as he shook hands with the ladies, without leering offensively.

Tim had seen Tony's discomfiture, and was on it like a whippet. "So, what happened a long time ago, Mr Forrest? If you don't mind me asking?"

Tony's glare, tinged with embarrassment, would have frozen Tim if he hadn't over the years grown a rather thick skin where his friend was concerned.

"Hey, Paul, please." _Well if that isn't just typical, DiNozzo. Why am I not surprised you haven't told them. _ "I owe him," he said easily. "He saved my life."

"He did?" Abby asked delightedly. "What did he do?"

Paul Forrest was nonchalance itself. "Kid took a bullet for me."

_They'd sent out field-walkers to locate scattered bits of the aircraft, and over two days there wasn't much they hadn't assembled in the hangar that was their HQ . The team from NTSB were expert and thorough, and a picture was beginning to emerge, as the chief explained to the young detective who'd dogged his footsteps, peppering him with questions for all of those two days. _

_It would have driven him mad, but the questions had been genuine; a thirst for information, so he'd been patient. Out at the crash site, however, Paul Forrest was getting impatient about other things as he disconnected the eighth call in an hour._

"_I think I'm going to bury my cell phone, Tony. I'm sick of answering it and being told anonymously what I'm supposed to find..."_

"_Esher had plenty of enemies, Chief. They'll all want to blame each other. You want me to answer your calls for you?"_

"_Huh – I'd say great idea, but it might be my boss. No, I'll just keep telling them that they'll get the truth, whatever it is."_

_"Fine, but stay behind the canvas screens... and will you keep reminding your team? They don't seem to believe me." The young man's green eyes danced. "Story of my life... Anyhoos, there are a few guys out there who aren't willing to wait for the truth... when you're ready to go back to the hangar, tell me. Hey... what** is** the truth, anyway?"_

"_Well... ninety-five percent certain, he was just an inexperienced pilot who thought he knew more than he did. He hadn't completed his instrument training, and he shouldn't have been flying in cloud, or those conditions generally. No plot, no sabotage, just pilot error. Just don't spread that about until we're sure."_

_He stood up from his cramped position and stretched, yawning mightily._

"_Paul! I said stay -" The detective's words ended in a yell, there was a crack, and he found himself face-down in the grass, with all the breath knocked out of him, and a solid young cop on top of him._

"_What the... DiNozzo, what -"_

"_Don't you... remember what I said?"_

"_Stay behind the screens. Sorry. You can get off me now. DiNozzo? You're damn heavy! Tony! DiNo?"_

"_Yeah... 'n a minute..." _

_Something felt warm and wet under the Chief's hands as he tried to lift the detective off him._

"D'you know," Paul Forrest finished, as Tony cringed, "The bullet had gone into his back at a really shallow angle, and it was under the skin over his shoulder-blade. You could feel it, and the kid was telling me to go get it out so he wouldn't have to go to hospital. Is he still crazy?"

Everybody just looked at Tony; nobody had to say a word.

"Er... we've got a crash to look at," the SFA said weakly.

Forrest took pity on him "OK, DiNo, what is it you want me to do?" Tony managed a more genuine smile, and nodded at McGee.

Tim had vacated his desk, and spread everything they had out on it. "What we'd like you to do, Paul, is to take a look at everything here. We came to some conclusions, but we'd like not to tell you what they are, because we want to see whether an expert shoots us down or agrees with us."

"That's fair enough. How long have I got?"

"As long as you need. It's a closed case – we think it might bear re-opening."

Paul sat down on Tim's chair and swept a quick, practised eye over the photos first. "I'll need a lens," he said, reaching into his pocket for reading glasses. Abby produced one. "And... er, coffee?"

"How does breakfast grab you?"

"By the throat. I'll eat anything." Tim grinned and hurried away.

Tony felt as if nothing had changed... it was eight years ago and he was watching the expert at work. Where he'd been crouched over a messy, metal-filled hole in the ground, silently evaluating, here he was stooped over documents and photos, in the same silent concentration. As then, Tony wanted desperately to ask questions, but tried to restrain himself. Paul looked up.

"What, DiNo?"

The SFA grinned. "Nothing, Chief. I'm trying not to distract you."

"Chief?" Gibbs asked. "You were a Navy man?"

Now it was the investigator's turn to smile. "Air Force," he said challengingly. "Chief Master Sergeant." His tone clearly added,_ 'Want to make something of it, Marine?' _

Ziva sat upright, wondering if she would have to go ninja in Gibbs' defence; Tony leaned forwards in eager anticipation...Gibbs and Paul Forrest both burst out laughing at the same time – and Tim arrived back with the breakfast, standing there with that look that said he knew he'd missed something, but couldn't figure what.

"Just a bit of inter-service rivalry, McToolate... over before it began..." Tony sounded regretful, and earned a glare from both men.

"What did you want to ask, DiNo?"

"Ah... well, it occurred to me that maybe we should tell you the one thing we know for certain." He wandered over, and pointed to the two pages of log in their evidence bags. "This page is original, that one's forged," he said seriously.

"Damn... I was wondering about that. It didn't make sense."

"Why not?"

Paul shook his head. "Let me do what you were doing... I won't say anything until I'm done. Tell you just one thing, though... I remember this case. It's been on my mind on and off for the last eight years. And that _is_ all I'm saying." He reached for the bag Tim had put at his elbow. "What's for breakfast?"

For a long time there was nothing but the sounds of munching and concentration.

After a while Paul asked if any of the photos could be enlarged without losing definition, and was delighted when Ziva offered to take him down to the lab. Tony grinned to himself. Paul was utterly happy with his Lin, but hey, a man can look and enjoy... When they came back a while later Abby was with them, and all three looked thoughtful, and both pleased and sad, if that were possible.

Tim, Tony and Gibbs didn't need to be told, they got up and everyone gathered round the big screen. Abby put up the picture that Tony had seen in his mind when he'd stood at the crash site the previous evening. The olive-drab tail of the destroyed aircraft stuck up from the ground, with the tip of one snapped wing showing through the gap left by the missing rudder.

Paul looked at the ground, and cleared his throat. Seven innocent men... "C26As," he said finally. "Reliable buses... flown in them hundreds of times... Three things. One, there's been a serious miscarriage of justice. Two, the people who killed seven men are still out there. Three, we _have_ to find that rudder."

TBC


	7. Chapter 7

**AN: I'm not sure of some of the terminology here, or whether a search warrant would be necessary... I've thrashed out as much as possible with USAFChief, who's been, again, a very great help – thanks, Chief! If anything's still wrong, blame me, not him; I've tried very hard to be accurate.**

Oonagh's Faith

Chapter 6

The sun was quite high, the morning peaceful and still, when Oonagh Rourke pottered out of her bedroom and headed into the kitchen to put the kettle on. Those dear boys... she looked at the empty wine bottle and smiled. She'd known what they were up to, shame on them for getting an old woman tipsy... but she'd slept well, and her heart felt lighter.

She felt, rather than heard, something that could have been a chuckle from behind her; her breath caught in her throat and she turned, as quickly as she was able, towards the door. She looked across at her husband's chair – she couldn't see him, but he'd been there. The kettle forgotten for the moment, she walked across to the chair, and ran her hand along the high back.

"Ach, Acushla... no, I should have known... it's not time yet, is it?" She sat slowly down on the footstool beside the hearth. "You know I want to know how it turns out... And something's in the wind, isn't it? This time yesterday, I'd scarce heard of NCIS, and never of those two young men... but I had faith, Ardal... I still have. Even more now. I don't know how they got here – maybe you sent them – but they're here, and it's going to all be made right." She sat silently for a moment, and the leather of her husband's chair shone in a patch of sunlight. "I know what to do, love..." She patted the arm of the chair, and went back into the kitchen, where the ancient phone hung on the wall, and dialled the number of the kindly community lawyer that Father Barney had once put her in touch with.

NCISNCISNCIS 

The team waited for the NTSB man to continue, and he said heavily, "Well, there was nothing wrong with Tim's instincts... " He sighed. "A question. Have you confirmed that the wreckage has been disposed of?"

"We have," Ziva said. "Yesterday, when Tony and Tim were out visiting Mrs Armstrong and Mrs Rourke, Abby and I tracked down the stored copies of all the records we could, and accessed them online. We also accessed the records of the DRMO, which controls re-use of resources, and confirmed that the remains had been scrapped, less than a year after the crash. I contacted them to ask if there had been undue haste, by comparison with others, and they said not, but said there was a note in the file asking to send confirmation to a number at JAG that it had been done. They were going to get back to me if they could ascertain the owner of the number at the time, but have not yet done so. I asked them to be discreet about it, in case there is anyone still at JAG who has contacts with Admiral Charlesworth."

"Hmph. Nice work, Ziva. Abbs."

Ziva smiled inside herself. She knew she _was _getting better at that side of the job, but what pleased her most was that these days she could be happy about being the one to stay and do it. When she first joined the team she'd have been insulted at being left behind; these days, the Action Woman knew how to be tranquil.

Paul Forrest nodded thoughtfully. "I'm not sure," he went on in the same unhappy tone, "just how much practical help I can be. No, the inquiry was _not_ thorough enough – my team would have been ashamed to have done such a sketchy job. To be fair, reading through, I've seen nineteen different names on interim reports – far too many people to make a cohesive job. There's no proof, but it could have been a deliberate attempt to fog the issue; I don't know how a team _could_ have worked well like that."

"Oonagh said that," Tony murmured softly.

"She was right, Tony. There were other clues, like the fact that I could find no evidence of anyone checking if a new rudder linkage was signed out of the stores,; evidence of that would have helped Rourke. An oversight? One person thinking another had done it? Don't they check? Read each other's reports?"

"Do parts have serial numbers?" Tim asked.

"They do, and on a well run base they'd be recorded, and who took them."

Tim hurried to his desk. "I'll go hunting," he said in a tone that suggested that well-run wouldn't be what he found, but he still wouldn't come up empty handed. Paul thought his slightly sceptical glance had gone unnoticed, until Tony flashed him a look that said _'believe it'._

"I wasn't hopeful about the physical evidence, I was pretty certain it _would_ be gone, and even if you could re-open the case on photographic evidence and the word of one _civilian_ expert witness, you'd never get a conviction on it. There are lots of tiny little technical points – take all day to explain – if you need me to put it all in writing in an affidavit I'll do it, but I still don't think it'd be enough."

"So what makes you certain that it was not Rourke, Paul?"

"Three things, none of which would hold up in court, Ziva. The process of elimination doesn't stand up; they really couldn't determine that no other part had failed, since so much was beyond recognition." The expert snorted. "OK, my feeling is that yes, the rudder was responsible... but there's no _proof_. Never was. The fact that the rudder's missing – it's too _big_ to go missing. And for me, the fact that Rourke kept begging them to find it, insisting it'd prove he hadn't lied. Why would he say that if he'd not replaced it? Or if he'd tampered with it?" He looked at them all in turn. "If it exists, somewhere, like I said, we have to find that rudder."

There was silence for a few minutes, then Tim looked up from his screen to muse, "It _was_ missing, but the tailplane was otherwise intact – so it didn't go into the ground at the crash site."

"So, it was taken from the crash site, or it landed somewhere else, and was found," Tony said. "How big was it? How heavy? Could a farmer with a tractor take it to roof his hen house?"

Gibbs began to rumble alarmingly, but Paul chuckled. "It happens... although the Navy should have canvassed locally and put the word out about penalties for 'appropriating their evidentiary property'." He made quote marks.

Tony wasn't deterred. "But it wasn't _there_. If a local didn't take it, somebody did. Like, the bad guys."

Paul nodded. "It wouldn't need a tractor. Two strong guys could get it onto a pickup."

"The most local bad guys were Naylor and Iverson," Ziva added. "It is cold-blooded... If they were ready, because they knew the aircraft was going to crash, they could be there long before anyone else... but how would they know _where_ to be?"

The expert shook his head grimly. "They'd know." All eyes were on him; he couldn't remember ever having a more attentive audience. He looked at Ziva; his eyes had been in the habit of twinkling when he spoke to her or Abby, but not now. "I'm sure you have a map of the airfield."

"Of course," the Israeli said gravely. "Road map, satellite or air map?"

"The last, please." The air map appeared at once. "Here's runway orientation, SW to NE... decided by prevailing winds in the area. That's this symbol here. Standard procedure is to take off into the wind, so you see they were heading north-east. Now, their destination was Norfolk, so they were going to head south east. They had to reach a prescribed altitude before turning, which takes them to about here." He used the cursor to demonstrate. "They'd begin a three hundred and sixty degree turn, keyhole shape... and that's when great strain would be put on a damaged or weakened rudder part. My feeling is that it would fail somewhere on this line -" he used the cursor again - " putting them down here..."

Ziva overlaid the satellite image with the crash site marked on it; it was not far off-centre of the area Paul had indicated. They all looked impressed, but he took no visible pride in being right. "If the rudder tore off," he went on, "even if it landed in the forested area not the scrubland, you'd still find it before the official searchers, because you'd be looking on this line -" he moved the cursor again - "and you'd know what you were looking for."

Once again, he looked round at them all. "You've put together a plausible scenario from what you've learned so far – I'd be prepared to add to it that they got to that rudder first."

Abby spoke for the first time. "What did they do with it?"

"Take it far away from the debris trail, and bury it?" Gibbs suggested.

Tony winced. "We could find it with GPR, but only if we knew roughly where to look."

"They might have destroyed it," Abby said. "Smashed it up into unrecognisable lumps and dumped it in a landfill, or sold it for scrap to someone who didn't care what it was, and if they did that we'll never be able to prove that Oonagh's husband didn't do it, or catch the -"

"We'll catch them, Abbs," Gibbs reassured her. "One way or another."

"Oonagh, huh? Mrs Rourke?" Paul asked curiously. "You're on first name terms?"

"She's a lovely lady, Paul; you'd like her," Tony told him. "If you think you smell bias here, you're right – but only since yesterday afternoon, and we'd started investigating before we met her."

Tim looked up from his computer again. "Her husband was another victim of the crash he was blamed for, and so's she," he said grimly. "I'll tell you about it when we have time... you'll have to meet her." He clicked a few times, and fed some information to the big screen; it was a list of serial numbers. Paul recognised it instantly.

"You found the parts log, then? Why didn't the investigators?"

Tim shook his head. "Much as we expected, there were no parts logs to be found anywhere."

"Then what -"

Tony held up a long finger. "Patience, Chief... he's not called McGeek for nothing..."

Tim raised his eyes to heaven, and went on, "I found out who manufactured such things, and checked their sales records. These parts were dispatched to Lavall Field in the January before the crash." He highlighted two numbers. "These are the only two rudder linkages for those planes. One of those numbers got the blame."

"Well I'll be -" Paul Forrest remembered there were ladies present. He mimed taking his hat off to Tim, who shrugged.

"Doesn't get us any closer to finding it."

Nobody spoke for a while, until Tony noticed Ziva's stillness, and the frown between her perfectly shaped eyebrows. He put his head on one side in that way that Tim was familiar with, and said, "What?" She hesitated. "Zi?"

"Well... what if he did not destroy it?"

"He. Not they. Do you mean Naylor?"

"Tony... I am no profiler, but what sort of a man did Commander Naylor strike you as?"

The SFA thought for a moment. "No substance. Ego without anything to back it up. Had to keep telling everyone how good he was in case we couldn't see it... you, me, that young apprentice he was having a cow at for nothing... all the people he transferred... we learned all that in the first five minutes. What are you thinking, Zi?"

"It is a long shot." She waited to see if she'd got the idiom wrong, but Tony just smiled.

"Long shots are all we've got at the moment."

Ziva sensed another impatient rumble building up from the direction of Gibbs, and said quickly, "Without substance... a man who needs to build himself up... perhaps he needs external things... perhaps he kept the rudder. As a trophy." She waited to be hooted down, but again, there was silence, until -

Gibbs seized his desk phone. "Ducky – ya got a minute?"

NCISNCISNCIS

Tim tracked down a lieutenant who'd worked at Lavall Field in the year before the crash, who confirmed that yes, they'd kept records, not only of new parts, but also the old ones that were replaced. Green, plastic backed ring-bound folders; he remembered them well.

Paul sat re-reading silently, thinking that there were nine men dead, not the original seven he'd been thinking of, and even if one was one of the killers, he'd been murdered himself. He looked at the personal details of the men; Iverson had a wife... another widow... he asked Abby about Oonagh Rourke, and ended up feeling as angry as the agents had.

Ziva, as the instigator of the idea and one of the two who'd met him, sat with Tony, Ducky and Gibbs, listening to the ME's thoughts on Naylor, from looking at his service record, and hearing what the agents had to say. Her Mossad days seemed very far away now... she felt strangely content at her own small (as she considered them) contributions to the team investigation, and marvelled at it all... how _good_ this felt. Ducky had been listing his reasons for agreeing, and she was startled to realise she had hardly heard them. She shook herself and concentrated.

"...in short, yes, I believe Ziva may have made a very important observation. A keeper of trophies... quite likely. Now, how to prove it?"

Tony pushed his chair back and stretched. He grinned round at the others. "Got that covered," he said.

NCISNCISNCIS

They got a warrant, and waited until after sunset...

"Tony, I can't act," Paul protested urgently yet again as the agency sedan approached Lavall Field.

"That is no problem," a black clad Ziva said plainly from the back seat. "Tony can act enough for both of you."

"But -"

"Can you look hard? Like you mean business?" Tony was unperturbed.

"Hell, yeah," Paul said. "I just have to think of nine dead men."

"That's all you need to do, then. Don't say a word." He stuck his badge out of the window at the guard on the gate, and drove to the spot where he'd parked yesterday. "You ready, then?"

Paul nodded, working on the not saying a word angle already. He looked round to see if Ziva thought he was getting it right; she'd vanished into the dark.

"Ya OK, there?" Gibbs' voice sounded in his ear.

Paul checked for the twentieth time that his throat mike wasn't visible, and muttered "Yeah..."

"He's fine, Boss... sssh..." The muffled sound of a door opening... "Commander Naylor, Special Agent DiNozzo – you remember we met yesterday..."

"I remember. I can't imagine what's brought you back, Agent DiNozzo. I told you everything I knew then."

Tony unleashed his most vacuous personality. "Well, just a courtesy call really, and we don't want to duplicate your work... we're on our way up to Great Falls. You know we've been looking again at that C26A crash... you're not going to believe it... but we had reports that the rudder had turned up after all this time. Apparently a farmer thinks he's got it... found this chunk of metal and decided to fill a hole in his fence with it."

"That's ridiculous," Naylor said, his tone betraying nothing more than irritation, although his eyes slid away.

Tony was aware of Paul tensing up to his left; his posture becoming more upright if that were possible. Why? Be alert, DiNozzo...

"Dare say, but we've got to check it out. This is Chief Forrest, of NTSB... he's the expert... I wouldn't know a rudder if it bit me. So... you haven't heard about it? The intel didn't come from you?"

"Of course not. I'd hardly rate that as intelligence. I certainly wouldn't give it any credence."

Paul said suddenly, in a tone of disgust and impatience, "Ah, come on, DiNozzo, we're wasting time. Agent David was right. Let's go and get this over with."

_'Agent David was right'... thought the guy said he coudn't act... _Tony didn't turn a hair, although in the other car, waiting down the road (they hadn't wanted to arrive in an official looking convoy) Gibbs was thinking, _'what the hell..' _; as they stepped back into the open air, he simply raised his eyebrows. The older man was almost dancing on his tiptoes with glee as he seized Tony's elbow and spun him back to look cautiously through the window.

Naylor had picked up a paperweight from his out-tray, and was hefting it thoughtfully from one hand to the other.

"Ziva was right? That's a... a trophy?"

"That, DiNo," he was having trouble keeping to a whisper, "is a connecting bolt for any sort of linkage that needs strength at the articulation point. Like a rudder... and it's new. Unused."

They watched sickly, as Naylor trailed his fingertips down the four inch long steel rod and then put it in his back pocket. He went quickly out through a rear door.

"I am on him," Ziva said softly in their ears. "He's heading towards the north perimeter fence on foot. Don't let him see you..."

They headed in the general direction that Ziva had told them; they knew she was up ahead somewhere, but "Hey, don't worry, he won't see _her_," Tony told an anxious Paul.

"A line of concrete sheds, by the windsock," Ziva told them softly. "He is going to the last one on the right... unlocking it... he is going inside. There is no more need for concealment... Hurry...Are you close?" Four affirmatives in the earpieces – Gibbs and Tim were closing in too, and now broke cover fifty yards away. As they got closer, they could see, in the airfield's ambient light, that the shed door stood ajar, and Ziva lay on her stomach on the roof, hanging over the end, her gun drawn.

Paul, unarmed, stood back because he'd been told to. He didn't like it much, but he'd given his word. And Lin wouldn't like it if he went back with holes in him...

The three agents drew their weapons... Tony yanked the door open and Gibbs snapped a huge flashlight on. At the back of the shed, like the well-known rabbit in the headlights, Naylor stood frozen, holding the dusty piece of tarpaulin he'd dragged away to uncover a large, olive-drab painted piece of metal that stood against the wall.

Tony saw Oonagh's face in his mind. "Paul...?" he asked very softly.

The expert stepped forward. "Oh yes," he said just as softly, but his voice still sounded like the crack of doom. "That's the rudder from a C26A."

**AN: Only read through once, in tearing hurry. Please excuse any mistakes.**


	8. Chapter 8

Oonagh's Faith

Chapter 7

It was Tony who eventually broke the silence, as Naylor's mouth worked but no sound emerged. He breathed on his nails, and polished them on his jacket. "Well, looks like my - sorry, Chief – _our_ performance was so good he almost believed it, Boss... can you believe he was so dumb as to think a big thing like that walked out of here on its own, and went to prop up a farmer's fence?"

"Dumber still to keep it here in the first place," Gibbs growled.

Tim said nothing at first, but stepped forward to cuff Naylor's hands behind him, and then exclaimed theatrically, "Hey, what's this in his pocket? Whoever carries something this big and heavy around with them?"

Naylor was still silent; his brain paralysed with fright beyond even registering the rhetorical question, as Tim snapped on evidence gloves and retrieved the bolt. He turned it carefully in the light of Gibbs' flashlight, but it was his SFA he spoke to. "It's the one, Tony."

"It is? That's good... I mean... are you sure? Course you're sure."

Paul came closer to have a look; so did Ziva after vaulting lightly down from the roof. "The serial number's one of the two Tim found, 71213-2. They're a pair – same number, with a -1 will be on the linkage..." He motioned politely for Gibbs to direct the beam, and then forgot this time that there was a lady present. He pushed Naylor out of the way, and dropped to his knees by the rudder, cussing him out like a Chief Master Sergeant would.

The whole team moved forwards. Naylor looked longingly at the open door, until Tony froze him with a look.

"I read the cockpit transcripts... and I wondered," Paul said harshly, "why there was no comment about the rudder from the pilots until they went into the turn." He pointed to the twisted and distorted linkage where it hung from the rudder. Still in the bolt hole, torn almost in two but twisted by the crash so it would never fall out, was a piece of lightweight aluminium tubing, the same length and diameter as the high-grade steel bolt. "He took it out... and put that in. It held until it was stressed, and not a moment longer. They didn't feel a thing until it was too late..." He leapt to his feet and went for Naylor's throat. "Seven men... you murdering bastard..." Gibbs hauled him off, but sadly he was too slow to prevent him from blacking the ex-commandant's eye.

"Relax, Chief... capital offence, times eight... he'll rot in hell soon enough. DiNozzo... Your bust, ya want him?"

Tony thought of Oonagh, a daughter who deserted her mother, a bereaved mother driven to poison pen letters, and a whole lot of other things, and barely glanced at Naylor. "Not particularly, Boss... but me and McGee'll take him. His bust too." He glanced across at Tim, whose thoughts were clearly occupied by his own list, then grinned at Paul. "Reckon _you'd_ better take the Chief..."

As they set out across the grass, a few staff members, who'd been told by Gibbs in no uncertain terms to keep out of it, were hanging around watching, silent with shock, except for Seaman Apprentice Reeves, whose voice followed them across the field.

"Hey... the commander's under arrest! Looks like he'll be leaving earlier than he thought!"

The Troublemint Twins herded their prisoner away, leaving Gibbs and Ziva to explain to the onlookers exactly what would happen to them if they said anything to anyone about tonight until they were told they could.

NCISNCISNCIS

The two agents stood in the observation room looking into Interrogation 1. Naylor sat hunched at the table; they'd allowed him to visit the head and cuffed his hands in front, and a bottle of water stood at his elbow. Beyond that, nobody had offered him any kindnesses. He didn't move, except to occasionally look up at the mirror, and then look away quickly. His expression was still that frozen one of fear he'd worn since the moment he'd been caught.

"So," Tony asked quietly, "D'you fancy yourself as a McShrink? What're you thinking about him?"

Tim frowned thoughtfully. "Ziva nailed it," he said after a while. "And what did you say? 'No substance'... He plodded up through the ranks, nothing much to show but long service. Got his last post by cold, premeditated murder... had a high enough opinion of himself that he thought he'd never get caught... you tell me... did either of your visits seem to alarm him?"

"Yesterday's not at all. Today's... no, I think he was just checking he wasn't wrong."

"So... now he _has_ been caught, he's terrified. His life's turned round out of the blue in an hour flat, and he hasn't a clue what to do."

"We have to move before that changes," Tony said. "Any suggestions?"

"You mean... we interrogate him?"

"Well, yeah, Tim. That's why he's sitting in there. You can have him to yourself if you prefer and you've got a plan -"

Tim flushed. "No... I mean, without Gibbs?"

"McGee," Tony told him with a sudden blaze of exasperation, "Right now Gibbs and Ziva are processing the scene and securing the evidence. No doubt at all Paul's advising them on how to transport that rudder back here – and they'll be calling Abby back in. They'll be looking for other evidence, and keeping the lid on this. Because in the morning, when the next crew come on duty and the present lot go off, unless he keeps them all there, that lid is going to go sailing over the trees... and we haven't got anything at all against Charlesworth except those dodgy patents."

"Ah..." Now Tim understood his friend's impatience, and let it roll off him, although he envied Tony his ability to read Gibbs-think, let alone Gibbs-speak. "The Boss didn't have to _say_ that he sent us back to get the proof..."

"Uh-oh. He simply expects us to _do_ it. Quickly."

Tim thought again. "All right... let's leave him to stew a while longer, and hack into Flyright. See if we can find anything to link the two of them personally."

Tony grinned and followed him out of the door. Regretting his momentary irritability, he resorted to _being _irritating. "Now you're cookin'... course, I'm assuming that's the royal 'we'? Like, you say something completely incomprehensible, and I sit and nod, you say something more, I nod... you find things out, and I -" Tim stopped in the middle of the corridor and gave him a baleful glare. "I'll go see if Abby's in yet." He began to beat a hasty retreat, then turned back. "One thought..."

Tim stopped with one foot in the air, and pivoted, hearing the serious note return to his friend's voice.

"I did wonder," Tony said, "why Naylor left it eight years to quit and join Flyright... you'd think he'd have gone earlier. More money, etc..."

Tim nodded. "Flyright was formed..." he furrowed his brows remembering, "Two years after the crash, when Charlesworth retired. Then would have been a good time...His contract was long up. You might have something there... I'll look at that." He paused. "Y'all right?"

"Yeah," Tony said ruefully. "You?"

"Yeah. Hey, we're getting somewhere." He hurried away.

Abby was just arriving, but a call to the garage told them what they'd thought would be the case; the rudder hadn't arrived yet, so they asked to be informed the moment it was, and were just about to disconnect when the tech said "Wait," urgently. "Hey, get down here... motorcycle cop just arrived with a laptop." As they stood in the elevator, Abby's phone screamed. "Abbs... Naylor's laptop's on its way... took it on the off chance. Might be useful."

"It's already_ here,_ Gibbs -" She was talking to thin air, as usual.

They hurried back up to Tim. As they went, Tony filled the forensic scientist in on the story so far – she'd got the bare minimum from Gibbs, of course, and now she was anxious to see justice done for Oonagh Rourke.

"McGeeeee... You got the bad guy! Well, one of the bad guys... Tony says you'll have the other one before morning... have you found anything?"

"Not quite... I'm getting there – I'm into Flyright, but getting to information on Naylor is slower..."

Abby pulled the laptop from behind her back. "Ta-raa...this might be easier!"

Tim smiled. "Naylor's?" As Abby nodded he held his hands up palms out. "Not that you need it easier," (his sense of self-preservation was strong when Abby was around,) "but you start on that and I'll go on with this – you may find an 'in' for me as well."

Abby pulled Tony's chair up to McGee's desk, and they settled in side by side, heads bent intensely. Tony watched them for a moment. "I'll leave you to do whatcha do do well," he said cheerfully. "I'm going to go and get on Naylor's nerves for a bit. Text me when you get something – soon as you know we've got warrantable stuff, get one. Catch Judge Pollard before she goes to bed... she likes us and hates corporate skulduggery. Come and join me when you're done if you like."

Tim lifted his head for a moment, and grinned broadly. "Uh-oh... Wouldn't cramp your style for a moment... We'll be behind the mirror, enjoying the show."

Arriving at Interrogation 1, Tony stood outside for a moment, and took a few deep breaths. The worm sitting in there had killed seven men for certain, and an eighth that he was going to get the proof of before the night was out. This time he didn't dwell on the people out there who needed justice, he willed himself emotionless, and stepped through the door.

At the same time as he glanced up to the red light to check that the camera and mike were running, Richard Naylor looked up, and stunned him by blurting, "Where's your boss?"

Tony managed to keep his visible surprise down to a blink, and then winged it, his half-formed plan evaporating. He frowned in exaggerated bewilderment as he dragged a chair and threw himself noisily down on it.

"Oh!..." he put on a shoe-dropping expression. "I get it... you want the organ-grinder, not the monkey... Hey, why don't I get the Director in here... nothing but the best for an important man like you! Not that it'd help you of course... you'll recall that Admiral Chegwidden himself took an active interest in that plane you were walking around with a souvenir of... but even that didn't get justice for Ardal Rourke, did it?"

Naylor said nothing.

"Not for Rourke... not for the seven men who died on that aircraft... not for the families or the widows – and not for Keith Iverson." There was a flicker of reaction to that name. "Yeah, Iverson. I'm curious about him... why'd you kill him? Did he threaten to tell? See, I don't figure you could have got that rudder away from wherever you found it and into that store without help; so, blackmail? Bribery? Threats? Whatever... you knew he wouldn't stay silent, so you ran him down when he was walking to buy a newspaper. You think he wanted to read about the crash? Surprised you didn't keep a trophy of that too..."

Naylor's eyes jerked up, then went straight back to the table-top, but he remained silent.

"Ah... maybe you did... well, we'll find it. Or maybe that rudder was trophy enough. I don't care. I wonder what Admiral Charlesworth would have said if he'd known you were keeping mementos?"

This time, Naylor's head stayed up, his expression stunned.

"Hmmm..." Tony went on carelessly, "You didn't know we'd made the connection, then?" He leaned back in his chair, then let the two front legs hit the floor hard. Naylor twitched, and the agent leaned across the table conspiratorially. "That's another thing I'm curious about; well, two things really... did you think Iverson was where you wanted him, but Charlesworth said shut him up? I mean, he pulled the strings, yes? You'd do what the Admiral said?"

For the first time, Naylor looked something other than scared stiff; that had stung, and there was anger on his face. "Doesn't really matter... we'll find out... but I couldn't help wondering if you and him are so thick as thieves together, why you didn't join the company earlier?" Naylor actually glared. "It's been going for six years... why only now? You like the Navy so much? Your contract was up... you could have resigned your commission... earned more money... what were you going to do at Flyright? I'm sure the Admiral must have offered you a good position, after what you did for him, securing those patents by killing the originator... Yeah, we know that too."

"I want a lawyer."

"Well... that's your right, of course... but the moment you lawyer up, is when we can't help you any more. You want to make it easier on yourself, not harder. Gibbs wasn't joking when he said capital offence... and in the meantime, _Commander Naylor,_ you'll be reduced to something lower than that young apprentice you were bullying yesterday, and at the mercy twenty-four hours a day of junior ratings who control your every move and _love_ doing it. Permission to go to – oh, _do_ excuse me..."

His phone was vibrating against his hip: McGee. The text said simply _'step out'_.

Abby and Tim stood at the far end of the corridor, waving printouts and silently bouncing with anticipation. As Tony joined them, and they went back round the corner well out of earshot, they both started talking at once, until Tim took a deep breath and said, "OK, Abby, you start."

The goth beamed. "I found these," she said. "They were hidden, like you hide your false teeth, because they're embarrassing... look – over the last two and a half years... gettting more and more indignant..."

The sheaf of printouts were letters from Naylor to Charlesworth, wanting to know when he'd get the promised position at Flyright, and replies that were clearly stalling. Some were even written by PAs, not the chief exec himself. "I don't think the Admiral really wanted him," Abby said tragically as Tony skimmed the sheets. The final one was an offer, to which Abby had annotated Naylor's current earnings; it was a sufficient increase to silence the complaints.

Tim said, "With some of the keywords and dates I was finally able to get where I needed in the company files..._ this_ is the really important one." He handed Tony the sheet and waited. It was a personal note, dated three weeks ago, from Charlesworth to his head of human resources.

_Corrina, sweetie,_

_Naylor's been in touch again... OK, can't stall him any longer... Just find him something that pays well enough to shut him up, that doesn't have him in a position to give orders to anyone else. I swear it'd be the fastest way to lose a whole department. _

_Use your ingenuity; come up with **something. **_

_The blathering oaf did me a favour years ago, and no, sweetheart, you do not want to know what... I'll know better next time. _

_Help me out here... there's a weekend in Paris or whatever you fancy if you can do it. Just get him off my back._

_A._

Tony raised his eyes slowly from the paper, and his smile was wolfish. "Nice work, both... _very_ nice work. So... you got the warrant?"

"Legal's doing it for us, Judge Pollard said take it over to her residence, we'll have it back within the hour."

"OK, you want to get a ringside seat?"

Abby and Tim disappeared happily into the obs room.

Naylor had had time to think about Tony's words. He attempted a defiant glare as the agent re-entered the room, but it wasn't very impressive.

"OK, where were we. Oh yes... do you have a particular lawyer you'd like us to contact?"

Naylor said "I thought -" then closed his mouth firmly.

"That I said you could help yourself? I did. But if you prefer to have your lawyer brought in now, that's your choice." Tony stretched and made his joints pop, and Naylor winced.

"I... I'm not saying anything."

"Then you _do_ need your lawyer. You can't have Admiral Charlesworth, you know, even if he was with JAG. He's going to be needing one himself... although being the brains of the operation, he's probably covered his tracks a lot better than you did. He probably told you to kill Iverson, but you can be sure there's no proof of it anywhere, so that's one you'll stand trial for alone."

"He wasn't -" Naylor blurted, then decided a second time against saying any more.

"The brains? You were?" Tony raised one sceptical eyebrow. "Commendable loyalty, trying to take all the blame... it's a shame he doesn't feel the same way. He'll be in the next room before the night's over, and he won't hesitate to sell you down the river."

Naylor looked rather wildly at the mirror.

"Not _that _room, silly. But take my word for it, he won't be as keen to protect you."

"What d'you mean?"

The SFA passed the memo across, sat back and waited... and after that it was easy.

"The bastard! The arrogant, cheating, self-serving bastard! 'I can cover up anything', he said. 'I'll protect your ass! Get me those patents... We'll be set up for life'... then it takes him six years to finally give me what he promised... fobbing me off with money – I wanted out of the Navy! I wanted a respected position! Blathering! Oaf! He didn't do a thing! _I _was the one who worked out what to do! _I _was the one who found a scapegoat."

He banged his fists on the table. "Brains? _Him?_ All he did was tell me Iverson was a loose end... ordered me to do something about it... He got the patents, he reaped the benefits... The two-faced lying b- what d'you want to know? I'm not going down by myself..."

Tony turned to face the mirror, and mouthed _'thanks'_.

NCISNCISNCIS

It was a very long night, and nobody cared. Paul stayed with Abby as she started work on the rudder. Tony stayed to go on with Naylor's interrogation, Tim went with Gibbs and Ziva to arrest a stunned, incredulous Charlesworth, and then to Flyright to take possession of all the relevant files, where he was able to find copies of the Naylor letters, and evidence of irregular payments to him. It was nine in the morning when Gibbs finally said, "Anything else can wait. Nice work. Go home, get some sleep. Chief – I got a guest room."

As they headed down to their cars, Tim and Tony suddenly stopped at exactly the same moment, and looked at each other. "Leave your car. I'll drive," Tony said. "Give your shoulders a rest."

His friend didn't argue, although how Tony knew they were sore he'd no idea. He'd been doing a _good_ job of hiding it... "OK... Since we're going to the same place."

As they pulled up outside the shingle cottage, Oonagh was watering the hanging baskets. She smiled in delight at seeing them, and then, looking at their faces, she grew still.

"Och, boys..."

Tim smiled gently. "Let's go inside, Oonagh."

They followed her into the house; in the living room she turned to face them. She almost didn't dare to speak; the violet-blue eyes looked earnestly from face to face. "Boys... you've done it, haven't you?"

Tony left it to Tim, it was his success after all.

"Yes, we've done it, Oonagh. Your man was innocent, and everyone knows it now."

The next moment they were both holding her as she sobbed.

**AN: Not done by a long way, but I hope the ending wasn't too sentimental.**


	9. Chapter 9

**AN: Paul makes his farewell; I'm deeply grateful once again to USAFChief for all the help he's given me with this story. **

Oonagh's Faith

Chapter 8

Paul said it was time he went back to Houston, he'd made his contribution, and given his (good) opinions on the experts who the Navy were sending to look at the new evidence. He never did see the inside of Gibbs' guest room, as they sat in the basement, going easy on the bourbon, taking into account the time of day, swapping tall, frequently blue tales of their time in the services. "Sleep's over-rated," he said cheerfully. "I'll sleep on the plane." He thought for a moment. "You reckon Mrs. Rourke would mind me paying my respects on the way to the airport?"

"Not met her myself yet," Gibbs said. "I'll drive ya there, then to DCA." He called DiNozzo, guessing, correctly, that he wouldn't have got as far as home – and where he was, McGee would be too.

"Oonagh says you'd both be more than welcome, Boss. The girls have already fixed to come later on when the forensics are done and we go back to the Yard... they want to meet her too, and... hang on... yes, she says she can do houseful,she's feeling fine... but anyway we're not leaving her alone right now - there are press out there and we're working out how best to handle them. Sleep? Oh, _sure._.. we've been taking it in turns."

The 'retired' Chief grinned and whooped like a teenager when he saw his transport, and didn't so much as blink at Gibbs' driving. He stiffened though, when he saw the crowd outside Oonagh's house: and he and Gibbs stalked through the middle of them. Someone stuck a microphone under Gibbs' nose and was simply told to remove it or lose it. It was removed.

Once in the house, Tony having made the introductions, and having repeated her heartfelt thanks a dozen times, Oonagh looked round, her eyes twinkling. "Will you look at this," she said happily. "My little house is awash with handsome men! Och, it gladdens my heart..."

They laughed, out came the shortbread, and they chatted for a while, until Gibbs noticed that the phone by the kitchen door was off the hook, realised why, and said, "So what about that circus out there, Oonagh?"

"Well, it's a free country, don't you know..." She looked round at them all, and suddenly her chin came up, and those violet eyes flashed. "But I believe I know what I'm going to say to them."

Tony's view had been to let them wait out there for ever; he looked at her seriously, and squashed down a protest. "D'you want us to come out there with you?"

"Och, lovely boys, of course I do."

Flanked by Tony and Tim, Mrs Ardal Rourke stepped out, straight backed, onto her front porch; Gibbs and the Chief stood behind them. There was a barrage of shouted questions; one voice, louder than the others, familiarly using the old lady's first name.

"Mrs Rourke to you," she said clearly, and waited for silence. "These gentlemen," she went on calmly, "are part of the team who proved my husband's innocence. I didn't see any of _you _eight years ago when he was trying to find somebody... anybody to heed his pleas that he'd done nothing wrong. You had nothing to say to him then, and I have nothing to say to you now, not if you camp out here all night. The weather forecast says heavy rain, by the way."

She turned and went back into the house, with her two escorts, while Gibbs and Paul stayed out there, staring down from the porch. The former Marine hitched his jacket back to expose his Sig, and said one word, "Go." Without waiting to see if his advice was taken, he and the Chief turned back into the house. By the time Ziva and Abby arrived, and Gibbs and Paul left, there wasn't a camera in sight out in the street.

NCISNCISNCIS

Things began to coalesce; there was enough evidence tying in many factors, to make JAG predict fairly short trials no matter how Charlesworth's lawyers tried to stack things. One thing that emerged was the innocence of Keith Iverson; the technician had been bullied into helping by threats of blocked promotion; so one widow never knew that she could have been faced with the possibility of her husband being a murderer. Knowing who killed him,_ 'I always suspected it', _gave her some closure.

Naylor was talking his head off; anything to try to mitigate what was coming. Gibbs shrugged to himself; Tony saw it and raised a questioning eyebrow.

"Say... six months before the trial's done," he said. "If he gets the death penalty it'll be maybe five years before all due process is done, and it's not something the forces like to use..."

"So it'll probably be life in the end," Tony agreed.

"Six years at most of sweating about his fate – it's still not as long as he put Oonagh Rourke through it."

"Best justice we can get, Boss... Oonagh had faith it'd come one day."

Talking to some of the staff who'd been transferred away at the time of the crash brought recollections of a fire-pit; when it was located, the very degraded remains of green plastic backed binders were found, so the rating who'd said there had been parts logs hadn't been dreaming.

All the members of the team visited Oonagh regularly; they told her it was for the shortbread. She was looking better in every way, (Ducky had researched good arthritis treatments, which she could now afford since AJ Chegwidden, no less, had used his influence to ensure a swift posthumous reinstatement for Ardal Rourke, and a _very _good amount of back-pay,) but she still moved slowly. These days though, she seemed to float rather than hobble; there was something ethereal about her. Tony confessed to Tim one time that he still caught her gazing sadly at her husband's chair when she thought no-one was looking.

"I guess that'll never change..."

"No," Tim agreed. "All the things we've done, we still can't bring him back." There was nothing else to say. Tony recalled the similar conversation with Gibbs – the sense of things being unfinished; it not being_ enough_.

Oonagh held a party; "My way of saying thanks, you know." As well as the team, and Admiral Chegwidden, she invited three redoubtable church ladies, "They helped me out and thought I didn't know. I'd never ask, you see," and Father Barney, the parish priest. Paul was invited, but had taken Lin to Italy to see their family there. He sent sincere good wishes.

There were other good friends the team didn't know, but everyone mingled well, Oonagh had provided delicious food, the wine flowed, and the atmosphere was convivial. Three things stayed with Tony as he thought it over afterwards; the way Father Barney regarded him, or Tim thoughtfully when he thought he wasn't observed. Once, he nodded to himself as if satisfied, and Tony had no idea why.

There was also the way Imelda, one of the friends, made a point of sidling up to him, and whispering, "Don't think too badly of us... we did try to help, you know, as much as we could... she's so darn proud..."

He hadn't been thinking anything so judgemental... "I know that, Imelda. So does she... you wouldn't be here else..."

The thing he remembered most though, was the silver photo-frame. She had many, with pictures of herself and Ardal, the two of them with their young daughter, Niamh's first prom, her wedding... but one pretty frame lay flat on a shelf, and was empty. Tony would never have noticed it was there if he hadn't seen Oonagh sadly running her fingers over it in the midst of the celebrations. When her attention was distracted,he wandered casually over, and took a peek. Ziva wandered just as casually to join him, and they both looked sadly at the silver bows and teddy-bears...and forget-me-nots.

"That is very sad," Ziva murmured. "Oonagh has never had a picture of her grand-daughter to put in that frame."

"I've wanted to ask her if her daughter's been in touch. I mean, it's been all over the news... she must know. Clearly, she hasn't. Maybe she's just embarrassed." He didn't sound as if he believed it himself.

NCISNCISNCIS

The next day, off duty, neither Ziva nor Tony had any idea they were within a few miles of each other; Tony at Norfolk, and Ziva at Windsor.

"Special Agent DiNozzo? James Rutherford." The man striding towards him across the mess hall, hand outstretched, bore the insignia of Lieutenant Commander and had a pleasant, slightly careworn face.(Tony had done his homework; everyone had said Niamh's husband was the approachable sort.)

"Commander... thanks for agreeing to meet me."

"My pleasure... d'you want something to eat? I'm on my lunch break."

"Just coffee, thanks."

"So... you said it was a bit delicate... what can I do for you?"

"Well, Commander, truth is, I'm talking a bit out of turn here, and I'm well aware I shouldn't be... the thing is, I'm on the team that exonerated Ardal Rourke."

"Ah..." was all the Commander said.

"Well, you know, news is only leaking out to the public gradually... but I wondered if you knew – if your wife knew -" the coffee arrived - "that's what happened. He _was_ cleared. There's no doubt; he was innocent. Er... Mrs Rourke was wondering if her daughter knew that."

James Rutherford looked at his coffee cup. "I believe she knows," he said eventually. "She hasn't said anything."

"Mmm... I -er – I'm sticking my nose in, and I know it's not my business... and no offence meant, but y'see... we all like Oonagh a lot. She's been through so much... she'd love to hear from her daughter, but she'd never ask herself, and she didn't actually _ask_ me to..." he spread his hands awkwardly; he still believed he was doing the right thing, but he still felt embarrassed.

"I understand, Special Agent DiNozzo, and I'm not offended. I liked Oonagh too; she was kind and smart and good company, and always made me welcome. So did Ardal. I didn't think he was the type to... but Naomi..." He didn't say what his wife thought. He pushed his coffee away untouched, and gave a sigh that came up from his boots. "I'll ask my wife if she wants to contact her mother. But if she doesn't want to do anything about it, then I... I have to ask that you won't take it any further either." He practically jumped up from the table. "Believe me, I'm sorry," he added sincerely, and practically fled from the room.

Tony sat and finished his coffee, deep in thought. Scratch that idea then... it was what the Commander _hadn't _said that was so depressing. His wife didn't want anything to do with her mother; Rutherford knew why, didn't really agree and was embarrassed by it, but couldn't or wouldn't do anything. Wouldn't diss his wife to a stranger? Hey... back to DC.

Ziva had done her research too, and knew exactly where she needed to be. She'd brought the most sophisticated camera available from the Navy Yard, and was making a great show of photographing flora and fauna in the small park by the nursery school. One of the mothers waiting in the sunshine to collect her child even pointed out the squirrels' favourite tree to her, so she stood as if hoping to get a shot.

The young woman she'd already identified as waiting to collect Isobel Rutherford was not her mother, Ziva knew. Isobel spent her non-nursery time with a registered child-minder while Niamh – er, Naomi worked.

Just as the doors opened, a robin obligingly settled on the kindergarten fence, and under the guise of snapping it, she fired off a dozen of the emerging children, then swung the camera away. She faced away from the crowd, not wanting anyone, especially Isobel's nanny, to think she was photographing the giggling pre-schoolers, until something cannoned into her legs. She turned quickly to see a gap-toothed, happy little boy looking up at her as he said "Oof!"

"Now, Jacob, be careful!" It was the friendly mum who spoke apologetically.

"Sorry..." the little boy said instantly, and Ziva took a shot of him just for fun.

"That is fine, Jacob -" a lively little girl ran over, and if she hadn't been followed by the child-minder, Ziva would still have known Oonagh Rourke's grand-daughter by her deep periwinkle blue eyes. The agent's breath caught in her throat; this beautiful, intelligent, smiling child was the one Oonagh yearned to know and never would. She angled the camera down and pressed the shutter several times without looking, hoping that _something_ would come out.

"Auntie Rose, can Jakey come for tea? Please? Christa says it's all right..."

Ziva sat down heavily on the nearest park bench, trying not to watch as the children dispersed. Over the years she'd sometimes tried to see into her own future, and had no idea even now if she would ever have children of her own, but just then she felt an acute understanding of what Oonagh must be going through still, even at this time when so much had been put right. She looked through the shots she'd taken; some of the wildlife ones she'd keep just because she liked them... The little gap-toothed Tom smiled again - and then, the perfect shot – Isobel's blue eyes blazed up at her. She, Ziva David, almost cried.

Gibbs was in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. He was glad Mrs Gordon didn't live too far away from DC, but in the end distance didn't matter; this was one person he was determined to see. The woman who opened the door at his polite knock was seriously overweight, pale and looked more than ten years older than the forty-six he knew she was. She was dressed any old way, her hair in any old style, and she glared at him suspiciously.

"Mrs Gordon? I'm Special Agent Gibbs, with NCIS. I was on the re-opened Great Falls crash case." Now her look was both angry and frightened. "May I come in?"

She stepped aside reluctantly; her house, like herself, maintained an obligatory level of cleanliness, but nothing more. It was just a house, no longer a home. The only things of note were about what he'd expected – photographs of her son, Darren, displayed prominently. She didn't ask him to sit down; as soon as they were in the living room she turned to face him and went on the attack.

"I know why you're here! You're going to tell me I sent them to the wrong person, for all these years! Well, I know!"

Gibbs saw the rage and grief that had destroyed her, and said as gently as he could, "Mrs Gordon, you shouldn't have sent them to anyone at all."

"He was all I had! His father died when he was thirteen. _He was all I had! _Someone has to pay fortaking him from me!"

Gibbs looked her in the eyes. "Even if you'd got the right person, it was the wrong way for them to pay. And how was _Mrs _Rourke to blame?" She didn't answer. "So... you kept sending them to make you feel better. _Did_ it make you feel better, Mrs Gordon?"

"Yes it did – I -" she crumpled. "No!" Her voice rose in a wail. "Nothing will ever make me feel better... ever..."

Gibbs led her to her sofa and sat her down. "I need you to listen to me good, Mrs Gordon. Mrs Rourke didn't turn you in all the time she was getting those cards – she knew pretty well who it was, but she _let_ you send them because she thought it would help you." She gaped at him. "I can see that it didn't. Maybe if you'd been stopped, got some help, you'd be a bit better by now, I don't know."

"I'll never be better," May Gordon repeated stubbornly.

"Well, I'll tell you something... you won't until you take a step to try."

"Are you going to arrest me?" She was only fearful now, not aggressive.

"Mrs. Rourke doesn't want you to suffer like that, so I'm going to do what she asked. But _I_ have a condition, Mrs Gordon. I'm going to ask someone I trust to come and see you. Her name's Rachel Cranston, and she's one of the best psychologists I know. And _you're_ going to do what she recommends... see who she wants you to see. If you do that, I'll do what Mrs Rourke wants. Do we have a deal?"

"Yes... I'm... sorry..."

As Gibbs left, he really hoped she was.

NCISNCISNCIS

When Tony got to Oonagh's, still wondering what to say (not 'fessing up wasn't an option,) he saw Tim's car already there. Gulp... great... an audience... When he got inside, it got worse – Abby had come with Tim. Hey... the more, the merrier.

"These two were just saying they should go," Oonagh told him after he'd hugged her and said hello. "They're afraid of outstaying their welcome. I told them Galway Bay will freeze over before that happens."

Tony's faint, mean hope of no public embarrassment died. Serve you right, DiNozzo...

"Now what are you looking so grim about, cush? What's wrong?"

"Well... ah... I've a confession to make, Oonagh..."

"Maybe we _should _go?" Tim asked helpfully, but Tony shook his head, took a deep breath and told them about his day's adventure.

"Ach," Oonagh said, unsurprised, "It would be like that." They all looked at her. "It was kind of you to try, Tony. You see... " she thought how to go on, "When I first told you about it, your visit brought everything back,... I was raw... it hurts, to be sure, but I'm resigned to it, don't you know? I understand her... She was bright... brighter than either of us... she associated with the bright children... and her background wasn't really what she'd have liked. Her dad and I weren't doctors, or Commanders, or Admirals...

"She looked at the photographs of Connemara... of Kilkerrin and Galway... and she didn't see wild beauty and people living in harmony with nature. She saw backwardness and country bumpkins... all right,_ peasants _– her liking was for cities... the modern world... fine glass buildings and sports cars... It's fine, Tony. I wouldn't get in the way of her needs... I understand. I hope well for her." She patted his hand. "You're such a friend, as to even try. But let it be, brave boy, sure, haven't I got all of you now?"

Her courage silenced him, he marvelled at her understanding, forgiving nature after all she'd endured; in any case he wouldn't have dreamed of mentioning her grand-daughter just then... and it was at that moment that there came a light tap at the front door. Ziva came into the living room clutching a folder and looking rather diffident.

"Gibbs says it is better to ask forgiveness than seek permission," she said shyly. "I hope I have done the right thing."

"Whish," Oonagh said in astonishment, but she was smiling, "You too, my dear? Oh...OH!" Her eyes filled with tears as she looked at the contents of the folder.

NCISNCISNCIS

The photograph in its silver frame took pride of place on the dresser; looking back, Tony was happy that one of them had had a good outcome from their day's work. Gibbs told them what he'd done, but it would be a while before they knew if that had been any kind of success. There was no word from either of the Rutherfords. Life went on, and a week later both Charlesworth and Naylor were arraigned on multiple charges of premeditated murder. Trial dates were set, Charlesworth refusing to be tried with Naylor in the hope that nothing would stick to him. "Hah- slim hope," Gibbs said with grim satisfaction. "Naylor'll be the star prosecution witness anyway."

Tony and Tim decided they should let Oonagh know, rather than have her seeing it on the news, and went over. Often she'd see them coming and fling the door open; this time even their light knocking brought no results.

The house was impregnable, Tim had seen to that, but if you knew where the key-safe was, _and _you knew the combination... they let themselves in calling her name, and then stopped, frozen, in the living room doorway.

She sat on the floor, in front of Ardal's chair; the pretty lightweight shawl she wore these days instead of the heavy cardigan now the house was warm, had slid from her shoulders and lay across her legs. The photo of Isobel in its teddy-bear frame was close to her right hand. Her left arm and head were on the seat of her husband's chair, as if resting on his knee, and she was smiling even though her eyes were closed. The fire had burned away to nothing on the hearth.

Tony cried, "Oonagh!" and made to dash across the room to her, only to be stopped by a hand clamped round his bicep, and an arm stretched hard across his midriff. Tim's voice was more urgent and forbidding than he'd _ever_ heard it.

"No, Tony... wait,_ no!_"

The tone got through to the senior agent, and he stood still in bewilderment, trying to ask why, but his voice wouldn't function.

"He _came_ for her, Tony... she said he would... Look... she showed him the photo, and then she went with him. She _said_ she would."

Tony drew a long breath, and found his voice; for once he felt like the younger brother here. "But... what if she's still alive?" Tim tried to answer, and now it was his throat that closed up. "Oh... We're to let her go. She told us. The first time we met, right?"

"It's what she meant," Tim said. "We didn't understand the message... but it's what she wanted."

Tony nodded. "I... I'd still like to know, Tim." His voice shook. "Do _we_ have to let her go?"

They walked very quietly across to her, as if not to disturb her nap. Tim crouched, and his SFA stood back. He put two fingers gently on the old lady's throat, but didn't have to press, she was cool. He shook his head and stood up again; Tony picked up the shawl and put it round Oonagh's shoulders again. "Oonagh..."

Tim said awkwardly, "I thought you wouldn't trust me..."

His friend blinked. "Always, Tim." They sat down slowly on the sofa, shoulders touching for comfort, in overwhelming sadness.

TBC...


	10. Chapter 10

**AN: Just as I rather liked AJ Chegwidden, I also liked Bud Roberts... so cameo appearance. And I'd like to remind CBS that I don't own NCIS or JAG.**Oonagh's Faith

Chapter 9

In the end, Tim said, "I wish we could have seen her alive one last time."

Tony nodded. "Yeah, me too... but then, how would we have known it was the last time? D'you think you -"

"_Don't_ ask me if I would have had a McMystic moment!" Tim snapped.

"Wasn't going to put it like that..." Tony said truthfully, his voice rather small for him.

"Sorry," Tim mumbled.

"Hey, maybe if we'd known that last time_ was_ the last time, we'd have been too miserable to enjoy it... D'you really think he came for her?"

"I don't know," Tim answered sadly. "But she believed he did, and that's what matters."

"Well..." Tony said hesitantly... "you did have a – one of those moments just now... and you were right. I nearly rushed in... if she'd still been alive, she'd never have forgiven me."

"Yes she would. She... she's _Oonagh_."

"We'd better do something... I just don't want to disturb her..."

In the end, the first person they called was Father Barney, so he could pray for Oonagh in peace; then they let the rest of the team and Abby know, and only then did they inform the civilian authorities. Gibbs asked if there was anything he or Ziva could do; not really, he was told, so he started making arrangements to take the team out tonight and, if necessary, get them very drunk.

When they'd given their statements to the local police, they touched Oonagh's hands in farewell, and retreated into the kitchen with the priest; none of them wanting to see her leaving her home for the last time. They made coffee, and leaned against the worktops, feeling lost. Father Barney said gently, "I know you loved her, and I can tell you, she loved you right back. She thought the world of you. You made life so much better for her these last few weeks, you know. She trusted you."

"It would have been hard not to love her," Tony said, and found strength returning to his voice. "I thought I'd seen it all, in my job, Father... but she taught me about dignity and strength in the face of hardship... and I've honestly never known anyone as forgiving. She was a special lady."

"She was all of that," the priest agreed. "She always had faith that one day Ardal would get justice. It never wavered, even when she was nursing him through the strokes – even after he died. And she knew – she told me – the moment she met you two, that you'd get it for him." He paused. There were voices in the living room, but he ignored them. "I watched you at that party of hers," he went on. "The Lord moves in mysterious ways... but I've seen good and bad in my calling, and for what it's worth, I figure the Lord and Oonagh were both right. Seems as good a time as any to give you this," he said. "She said you'd know what to do with it. It's sealed, but hey, I already know what's in it – I witnessed it after all."

Tony took the thick parchment envelope the father had drawn from his inside pocket, opened it and read the document with hands that began to shake. He held it where Tim could see it too. "Oh!" the younger man exclaimed. "That's what she meant!"

Tony looked at him in bewilderment.

"She told me... the day after the arrests... she said, 'I couldn't do both, so I tossed a coin. I think it came out right.' I asked her what she meant and she just smiled and told me I'd know soon enough."

Oonagh had left everything she had to Tony, with Tim as executor.

"Tony, she told us that too! When I talked about her security!"

Tony reached for the memory. "She said... she said, they're all for my grand-daughter... I wouldn't want the wrong people to get them. She was expecting us to see to it, and we didn't know how, then."

"_We're _to be the guardians, not her mother!"

"You catch on quickly," Father Barney said with his first smile since arriving. "It was simpler not to have co-heirs, so one to hold the rights, and one to oversee... You can see – Admiral Chegwidden himself checked it over. He called Oonagh to see if there was any way he could be of service, which was decent, a great man like him, and I suggested him for the other witness. He says it's watertight, in case anyone tries to object... It was all Oonagh's idea though – I think she was very wise."

Tony smiled, and it was without malice. "She got it right... me the brawn and McGee the brains."

"_Tony._.."

"It felt like it wasn't enough, Tim," Tony said, and his friend didn't have to ask what. "Now it _will_ be."

They each took a keepsake; Tim took the little crystal jar with the spills, and Tony the hand-written kitchen book that fell open easily at the shortbread recipe. They shook hands with the priest, locked the place up securely and left. As they glanced back, Tony knew he'd have to come back with Tim because he couldn't leave him to deal with Oonagh's papers, or the removals company, or the making of an inventory alone, but he really wished never to come back here ever...

NCISNCISNCIS

In their favourite bar, Caffrey's, that night, Gibbs found it wasn't an expensive shout after all; the twins had no intention of getting drunk. They dropped the bombshell that had been dropped on them earlier, and made plans. For the future... for Oonagh's grand-daughter.

They planned her funeral according to the wishes she'd made known to Father Barney; "No long faces now," she'd told him long ago. She was buried alongside Ardal at Mount Olivet Cemetery in DC; with AJ Chegwidden and Keith Iverson's widow among the mourners, (Gibbs observed a small posy with the anonymous message 'I'm sorry' amongst the flowers,) and afterwards the hospitality was at the church rooms that Oonagh had known well. Tony saw to it that there were violet-blue flowers everywhere, and an abundance of shortbread made to her recipe in the buffet, and only he knew how difficult it was to swallow... He and Tim glanced at each other from time to time and smiled ruefully. _ No long faces... _

Imelda and her friends took care of the clearing up; "A pleasure, Tony. Go on, now."

The mourners left, a few at a time, and suddenly, Tony had had enough of the day. "Guess I'm heading home, Boss, if everyone's OK. McGee?"

"Sure, Tony. Go on. We can talk about Woolley's tomorrow."

The firm in question were who everyone in DC who was in the services or an agency turned to if they were posted abroad, or had to change location in a hurry. They were expert and trustworthy, and yes, certainly they'd make the inventory, before undertaking the specialist long-term storage of Mrs Rourke's possessions. (Tony would never refer to them as his.)

His car was in the far corner of the church parking lot; as he walked slowly across to it, a female voice called sharply, "Are you Anthony DiNozzo?"

Well... he thought, that didn't take long... but right after the funeral? He braced himself and turned.

"Mrs Rutherford?" he asked politely.

The enraged woman hurrying across from the fire-engine red, new plate Solstice had Oonagh's shape of face and there the resemblance ended. Her arm swung without warning, and her leather gloved hand struck him so hard across his jaw and temple he saw stars, and took an involuntary step back.

"So you're the bastard who wormed his way into a vulnerable old lady's life and took advantage of her to get what you've no right to! That stuff's mine! You cheated her out of it, you conniving, smarmy con-man -"

By now the spinning of Tony's head had slowed down. He said measuredly, "I didn't see you at the funeral, Mrs Rutherford. Your mother's funeral."

"She had plenty of friends," she said dismissively. "I want what belongs to me. You can't come along and take what's mine by right... I'll fight you every inch of the way for it, you cheat -"

"You're a journalist, right?" Tony said easily, with an almost invisible 'stay back' hand gesture to his team, who were gathering behind her ready to attack.

"What – what's that got to do with it?"

He flicked his eyes over the car. "You earn good money."

"That's -"

"That's got everything to to with it, Mrs Rutherford. Your mother lived in poverty for eight years – where were you? And this morning you got a copy of her will – and wow, here you are."

"My relationship with my mother is none of your business -"

"And I'm not asking, Naomi... _Niamh_... but _she_ was my business..." His eyes were sad and his head drooped for a moment, then snapped up again. His eyes blazed; he took his notebook from his pocket and wrote an address down. "Tell you what, if you want to talk about this, about how you're going to fight me, you meet me there, tomorrow morning, say ten am – that'll be enough time for you to alert your lawyer, yes? And I'll tell you then what's going to happen."

"_You'll_ tell _me_? You'll -" She raised her hand to slap him again, but it was caught from behind.

"Assaulting a federal agent, Ma'am?" Naomi Rutherford twisted round to see not only the young man who was holding her wrist but two other men and two women standing behind him. It was too big an audience; she pulled herself free and stomped back to her car.

"You didn't deserve her," Tony said to her departing back. "She sure as hell didn't deserve you."

Tim slung an arm round his shoulders to steer him away from her. "Lashing out... not like you, Tony."

The SFA sighed, profoundly sadly. "Don't really care right now, Tim."

"No..." his tone the exact echo of his friend's... "s'pose not."

Gibbs looked at them all. "Caffrey's," he said. "Come on."

NCISNCISNCIS

You wouldn't have known that there were three other people nearby as Tony stood under the trees the next morning in the peaceful haven of Mount Olivet. Beside him stood a man around his own age, who, although shorter, was imposing in the uniform of a Naval Commander. They conversed in low voices. The rest of the MCRT stood among the trees, not deliberately concealing themselves, but inconspicuous. Oonagh had chosen her protector; they were leaving this to Tony, but they had no intention of missing it.

It wasn't long before Naomi Rutherford came marching across the grass. A short, greying man struggled to keep up with her; some way behind, James Rutherford carried his daughter.

"Why have you made me come here? I thought you meant an office – this is -"

"This," Tony said, gesturing at the slight mound clad in fresh turfs with a drift of deep blue flowers, and the older grave next to it, "Is your mother, and this is your father. The stone is gone, to add her name to his. But I don't want you to forget where they are. Seemed a good idea to me to have this talk in front of them."

"Whatever. This is my lawyer, Frank Hoyle. He's-"

"Mrs Rutherford, perhaps it would be best to hear what Special Agent DiNozzo has to say first."

The woman glared at him. "Whose side are you on?"

Tony stepped in smoothly. "This is Commander Roberts," he said calmly. "He's a very distinguished JAG lawyer. For the last few years he's taken a particular interest in the rights of marine and naval dependants who are still in their minority."

Bud Roberts stepped forwards. He didn't offer to shake hands. "Mrs Rourke was quite specific," he said evenly. "She wished everything she had to go to her grand-daughter, and nobody else. There's the sale of the house, which we've already accepted an offer on, her husband's back-pay, and the antique collection. She lived in the poorest of circumstances, rather than sell any of the pieces, so that Isobel could have them."

"What's that got to do with _him_?"

"Oonagh chose me because she knew that Tim McGee and I would make sure her wishes were carried out," Tony said flatly. "I've already relinquished ownership of everything to a trust for Isobel. The beautiful things your mother kept for her are already in specialist storage; even the piano will be regularly checked and tuned." He sounded almost as dry and lawyerish as Commander Roberts. "They'll be held until Isobel's eighteenth birthday, when everything becomes hers, and the trust will sit down with her to hear her wishes, and advise her if necessary."

"There's also a letter that Mrs Rourke wrote to her when she heard of her birth," Bud Roberts went on, "which the trust will give to her on her eighteenth birthday." He handed a sheaf of papers to the other lawyer. "For your perusal."

"So... Isobel gets it when she's eighteen? I don't get anything?"

The tall agent's green eyes glittered. "Got it in one, Mrs Rutherford."

Naomi's face twitched. "Frank! They can't do this! Fix it!"

"I tried to tell you, Naomi. The will was perfectly legal. I'm sure we'll find the trust is too, although it doesn't matter – it's nothing to do with us. Everything goes to Isobel when she's eighteen."

"If in the meantime," Commander Roberts said reasonably, "she needs anything urgently, she can make application to the trust through an adult third party, to have money for her education for instance, but the misuse of any such money will constitute fraud and be prosecutable."

"I'll handle that for my daughter," James Rutherford said suddenly. "I assure you, there'll be no misuse."

His wife turned on him with a shriek. "What? You'll -"

"Stop shouting, Naomi," the much put-upon Lieutenant Commander said wearily. "This is a cemetery... and you'll frighten Isobel." His wife gaped at him, then turned and Tony was treated to the sight of her storming away for the second time in twenty-four hours. It had all been worth it... James stuck his hand out to him. "Agent DiNozzo... thank you. An excellent arrangement. I'll make sure to explain it to Izzy as she grows up." He smiled at his daughter as she sat on his arm.

The little girl with Oonagh's eyes looked straight at Tony, and he almost lost it. "I'll bring her to visit sometimes," James added softly, looking towards the graves.

"Oonagh would love that," Tony told him. They nodded stiffly at each other, and James too left.

Bud Roberts regarded Tony quizzically. "Was that how you wanted to play it?"

"Couldn't have been better. Thanks for going along with it."

"My pleasure. Not much hope for that marriage, I'd say, but the dad's OK... I'll be on my way."

"Thanks again."

The team came out of their shadows and called goodbye to Bud as he went off towards the car park, and Tony stood with his eyes closed for a moment.

"Hey..." An arm threaded through his, and he realised that Abby was here too.

"Hey..."

"You OK?" That was Tim.

"Yeah, McExecutor... you?"

"Sure. Well, will be."

Ziva was spreading a large picnic blanket out not far from the two mounds.

Tony blinked. "What's this?"

Abby laughed teasingly. "I'm going to propose a toast," she said, dragging the twins over to sit down.

"We've got no drink," Tim protested. "We can't bring drink here..."

Abby dug a tin out of the canvas bag that Gibbs had been holding, and popped the lid. She handed big, crumbly chunks of shortbread round. "We're going to _eat_ a toast," she explained. She held her chunk aloft and thought for a moment. "To Oonagh, who had faith," she said, "and to those who proved she was right."

"To Oonagh..."

The End


End file.
